Palpatine Ad Portas
by Ieyre
Summary: When Palpatine moves Empire Day to Naboo, Darth Vader is forced to confront a past he thought better buried. Admiral Piett becomes the reluctant confidante of the Emperor, caught in the middle of a deadly Sith cat-and-mouse mind game. Meanwhile, Luke returns to his mother's home world to pay his respects, unaware of the grave danger he is in. [Sequel to 'In Loco Pirates']
1. Chapter 1

The moment Admiral Piett felt the Star Destroyer _Relentless_ drop out of hyperspace, he rose, and, adjusting the rank insignia on his dress uniform—starched and stiff, never having been worn before this day—walked briskly out the door of his private quarters and towards the bridge where the Imperial entourage waited.

He passed scurrying stormtroopers and droids, the thousands of cogs in the well-oiled machine of one of the Empire's finest ships, all preparing for the disembarkation of the ruler of the galaxy—and stopped to look out. The lush, green planet they had come for was just visible through the transparasteel viewport.

Naboo.

No one but he took any notice of the unassuming world, though it was the final destination on this most auspicious voyage. The Star Destroyer's passengers held its crew in awe—they were what was to be focused on, not the terminus. This state visit was the first and final royal tour of the _Relentless;_ the Star Destroyer would in all likelihood never carry the Emperor again. Now was the time for consideration of career, rank— _any_ advantage that might be pressed for the short amount of time _this_ ship was the most important in the galaxy.

They might have been going anywhere.

He turned his face away, internal clock reminding him time would not wait, and resumed his half-mile trudge.

The Emperor's home world had looked small to Piett, even from such a short distance as the Star Destroyer's present position. An unlikely beginning for the most powerful man in the history of the galaxy.

But, he thought, as he approached the bridge, and the perfect lines of stormtroopers turned into deck officers and over-stuffed dignitaries, not as unlikely as he, Firmus Piett, being invited to join the Imperial retinue on a state visit at the personal request of the Emperor himself.

He had been beyond surprised when Lord Vader, in his usual taciturn manner, had informed him of Emperor Palpatine's _particular_ desire for his presence in the party that would surround him on Empire Day. Piett was an ambitious man—but only where he knew he could distinguish himself. Playing the game of the royal court was not what he relished...he knew he had little chance of gaining anything by it. Frankly, the man had been astounded that the Emperor even knew his name.

 _But he does,_ he thought, as he passed the two Royal Guards who flanked the entrance to the bridge, _I would not be here otherwise._

The revelation disquieted him.

The guardsmen did not spring to accost Piett, as some of his more creative fellows at the Academy had claimed they would. As he stepped past the unfamiliar command crew and towards the raised dais where the Royal Party waited, he was acutely aware of being a mere spectator here. _The Executor,_ as the flagship of the Imperial Navy, _would_ have been the natural choice to carry the Empire's elite...had she not been grounded three weeks before for a full work-up, by order of the Emperor himself.

Palpatine had taken a _very_ personal interest in his affairs this past month.

"Ah—admiral," the Emperor said, his voice tinged with polite interest. "The last of our party. Welcome."

"Your highness." Piett bowed to his waist. Palpatine waved, as if he found this unnecessary ceremony to stand on.

"I believe you are at least _acquainted_ with everyone here?"

Coming out of the bow, Piett glanced between the other men. Watery-eyed Governor Tychum of Naboo's Chommell Sector was murmuring something to Moff Bratton. Piett knew the Moff—it must have been at least an attempt at humor, for he was chuckling softly—largely by reputation. High-born, his hawkish good looks matched the ambition that had first caught the Emperor's attention several years before. There was no recent public act of valor or political bid the younger man had made to have earned a coveted spot on the _Relentless_ , though. Perhaps, Piett thought, cynically, he'd been chosen for how good he would look on the HoloNet.

Next to Bratton was Captain Argos, Commander of the _Relentless—_ who Piett himself had come up with in the Academy. Stout and practical, what he lacked in Bratton's surface appeal he made up for in good sense. Argos would stay with his Star Destroyer when the rest of them went planetside—for that Piett was disappointed. Having another member of the Navy in the party put him more at ease.

His eyes slid past Argos, busy explaining the features of his ship to the Emperor, and rested on the last of their odd gathering. His superior, the Supreme Commander of the Imperial Navy, Darth Vader, stood dutifully at his Emperor's right side. Piett's gaze lingered on the impassive black mask for a fraction longer than the others, before turning his eyes back to Argos.

"I was just explaining to Moff Bratton that the Emperor asked to be informed when we began our approach into Theed so that he—that we _all_ —could be afforded the best view of the planet possible."

"Forgive an old man's whim," Palpatine said, his eyes, shrouded by his hood, fixed on the viewport. "It is difficult to act wholly _rational_ in the place of one's origin."

The Star Destroyer finished its circle of the planet's night side and the jewel-green world, lush and beautiful, shone brightly under its single sun.

"Naboo..." the Emperor murmured, in an inscrutable voice. "It has been too long."

Naboo. Piett, like everyone else, marveled less at the planet than Palpatine's choice to move the Empire Day celebration here so suddenly. In the twenty-three years of the Empire's existence—twenty-three _today_ —never had his majesty spent the festival away from Imperial Center. Along with the move were scaled back festivities—a retinue of twenty had become four,

a Coruscanti parade of ten-thousand became a festival entirely made up of locals. It would be provincial by any standards. The rumor mills were abuzz.

Was the Emperor's choice to leave the capital planet a calculated move, meant to show, even in the face of civil war, that he did not fear? Or was this an austerity measure, intended to sober the public at large with a more modest celebration?

Piett did not find either explanation compelling. The cancellation of the most important day in Capital City—or at least, the massive curtailment of it—had been on the whole a financial loss, and left the chief architects of the famous spectacle scrambling.

The Emperor seemed largely unconcerned.

"Beautiful, is she not, Moff Bratton?"

"The shining jewel in the crown of the Chommell Sector, liege."

Piett exchanged a look of disbelief with Argos. Under his thick eyebrows, the captain rolled his eyes—he had about as much tolerance for obsequy as his friend did.

Even the Emperor thought it a bit much.

"Have you spent much time on Naboo, Moff?" he asked, his polite voice hardening, almost imperceptibly. Piett had heard Palpatine never asked questions he didn't already know the answer to. The Moff realized this a second after he did.

"Not—ah—not as such, my lord."

Palpatine turned to him.

"And you, Admiral?"

"I've never had the pleasure, Emperor Palpatine."

"Well, before the week is out, you shall have _true_ call to be impressed..." The Emperor's demeanor sharpened. "Is that not so, Lord Vader?"

All eyes snapped to Piett's commander. For all his size and reputation, Vader had managed to fade into the background for the duration of the journey here. Piett had not heard him string more than three words together the whole voyage.

"As...you say." The mask shut out most modes of inquiry, but if Piett was not sure how unlikely it was, he would have thought Vader was not paying attention.

The Emperor turned back around and approached the viewport slowly, leaning on his knotted cane. As if by some wordless command, Vader stepped forward and joined him.

"How long has it been, my friend?" The Emperor's voice was loud enough for them all to hear, but the question was meant for one alone.

"Since whenever you last bid me come."

"Have you not, in all your years in my service, come of your own accord?" Vader remained silent. Piett did not think there was another being in the entire galaxy who would dare not answer. "I find it difficult to believe _you_ would neglect history so. _Everything_ began here."

The two men were caught in a private reverie—until Palpatine turned around to address the rest of them.

"You will excuse Lord Vader and I our reminisces, I trust."

Vader's helmet still pointed towards Naboo.

"We are almost in atmosphere." With visible effort, he turned from the viewport and towards his master again. "I will check that the shuttle is secure."

"If you think it _necessary_ , by all means." When Palpatine lifted one hand in a gesture of permission, Lord Vader stalked past them all and towards the forward landing bay, scarcely giving Piett enough time to rattle off a quick salute. "We shall join you in due course."

The moment Vader's footsteps had faded, Moff Bratton's shoulders visibly relaxed. He shared much of the Imperial Court's discomfort at Vader; the presence of their ruler's loyal second was usually enough to subdue an entire Coruscanti banquet hall. Vader and the Emperor _together_ in a social setting was virtually unheard of—and Piett could not help thinking, with bleak irony, that there was a reason.

There was not enough Corellian ale in the galaxy to take the edge off of this trip.

Governor Tychum cleared his throat nervously.

"Is all—erm," Tychum coughed into one hand, his eyes focused on the doorway through which the Sith had just disappeared. "I hope Lord Vader is not _displeased_."

Piett met the eyes of Captain Argos. Neither one of them would have thought the governor had the nerve to ask such a pert question.

The Emperor's disbelief was less frank.

"I am sure Lord Vader appreciates your concern, governor. I shall let him know you expressed it." The regional governor's expression was one of undisguised horror; Piett wanted to laugh. He stifled it, and his smile turned into a grimace. "No, I think it more likely he is—as he says— merely eager to ensure our security."

The Emperor returned to silently contemplating his home. What did he think of when he looked at that blue orb through the polished transparasteel viewport, Piett wondered. The past—it must be. He was a master of seeing patterns—was he now seeing the trajectory his own life had taken? Wondering at the unlikelihood of his destiny? A lesser noble from such a relatively minor system becoming the ruler of all known space was something no one—not even he—could have foreseen, after all.

Abruptly, the Emperor returned to the land of living.

"I have seen enough."

Whatever he saw, they would never know.

"The shuttle launch is not scheduled for another hour and a half, Emperor Palpatine," the Captain said, with another deferential nod. "If you'd like, I can show you to the more state-of- the-art facilities, or back to your chambers for more—"

"No. I think..." The Emperor clicked his tongue, thoughtfully. "...I wish to go directly to the shuttle. Let us s _urprise_ Lord Vader."

Tychum paled, but Bratton, by all accounts the next-highest ranking person there, eagerly took a step forward before—

"Admiral...?"

One word, phrased more as a polite question than a command. Taken aback, but intelligent enough not to comment, the Moff stepped aside and allowed Piett—a decade older and a foot shorter—to take what should have been his place at Palpatine's side.

"Governor Tychum, Moff Bratton—you may return to your quarters until our scheduled hour of departure." This was less something granted than something ordered. "The admiral and I will go —check on Lord Vader's progress."

With a flick of the wrist he had dismissed them, and both men murmured ascents—Moff Bratton's with only the smallest tinge of displeasure. They bowed to the waist and left the bridge. Palpatine similarly dismissed Argos; he suggested the Captain return to his standard duties. Argos, sensing the odd mood of his Emperor, was only too glad to accept.

That left Piett to accompany the Emperor alone—or nearly alone. Imperial guards trailed behind, but at such a distance as to make this an essentially private audience.

They walked in uneasy silence for several of the longest minutes of Piett's life. Shrouded in his customary hood, it was difficult to discern the mood of the man at the admiral's left. For one who used a cane, the Emperor walked with surprising purpose, and it occurred to Piett to wonder if it was possible that he did not need it at all.

Palpatine let out a low chuckle, and the other man had the impression he had hither-fore-to only heard whispers of—that the Emperor could read the minds of his subordinates.

"Have you enjoyed your leave, Admiral Piett?" he asked, suddenly. His voice was soft and polite. It was almost gentle. "Have you gotten a chance to convalesce and—spend time with your family?"

Piett blinked. Of all the questions he had expected, _that_ was about the last.

"Rest, yes—but no family. I'm a bachelor, your majesty."

"No parents? Siblings?"

"No family whatever."

"No family whatever," the Emperor repeated, thoughtful. "Would you say you are married to your command, then?"

Piett considered his options. There was the reply of the humble ("I never found a wife that would have me") the flatterer ("I certainly expect that death will be what parts us, my lord") or the politician ("as long as I am needed in my _current_ position, of course...")

"I do not see my command as an end unto itself," he answered, at last—deciding on the truth. At least it would be a novel approach. The Emperor probably hadn't heard it in a decade.

"A means, then?" The old man's tone was inscrutable. "To what?"

"Peace and security—in whatever way the fulfillment of my duty can gratify the Empire's need for both."

Palpatine laughed with genuine amusement.

"If I heard those words come out of _Moff Bratton's_ mouth, admiral," he said, slyly. "I would view them through a lens of—skepticism. But from you...I am quite certain you believe it." His thin smile turned circumspect. "I can see why Lord Vader holds you in such high esteem. You have much—though not all—in common."

Massive, imposing, and liable to strangle an incompetent—Lord Vader was intolerant of all failure. He could see very little of his commander's strengths—or the rough edges that put half the court's teeth on edge—in himself.

Again, his walking companion answered the unspoken question.

"There are hidden depths to Lord Vader, you know." The silent corridor stretched out before them, endless. He had never gone so long in a Star Destroyer and not seen personnel. "He is a complicated man."

"I...am aware."

"His devotion to the Empire is unparalleled."

"Unparalleled and undisputed, my lord."

"I was not entirely honest with the governor when I told him Vader was just interested in ensuring our safety," he continued, and his familiarity caught Piett off-guard. "Truthfully...I do not think he could bear to look at Naboo anymore."

Piett's step faltered.

"Your majesty, I'm afraid I don't—"

"You see, Admiral Piett," he interrupted, gravely. " _I_ am not the only one who is not rational when faced with my place of origin."

It took a moment for the full implication to set in.

There was no recourse but to rise to the Emperor's bait.

"Is this...Lord Vader's home world as well?"

"Is he from Naboo, you mean? No." The Emperor shook his head. "Let us say it is where—his career began. Like any place of formative significance, for him I believe there to be both— attraction and repulsion."

 _Where his career began..._ there had been no serious military campaign on the planet since the Clone Wars. Whatever it was that the Emperor so delicately alluded to, it must've been during that conflict—or even earlier. Vader's age was, after all, as much a mystery as anything else about him.

"The past...is a difficult ghost for _anyone_ to exorcise," Piett replied, cautiously.

"Ghost...yes, that might be the best word for it." He returned to a light and conversational distance. "I hoped having a trusted lieutenant—a fellow _military man—_ on this state visit would help—alleviate the tension for him. Lord Vader, I'm sure you know, does not much care for politicians."

Piett nodded, again suppressing a smile. Vader's dislike of the now defunct Imperial Senate was legendary.

"Present company excluded, of course, your majesty," he quipped, trying his hand at court flattery.

"There have been a _few_ notable exceptions." The old man smiled at a private joke. "I'm sure you will benefit from this trip as well. You will come to understand him much better on Naboo."

His words had an ominous ring to them; Piett only nodded, and they passed the rest of the walk in silence. It gave Piett a dangerous amount of time to think.

The life that Lord Vader had before his injuries was no longer a complete blank—it existed, and he had been a person of interest to the Chancellor of the Republic, at least. But why was Palpatine confirming a dual identity to _him_ of all people? He had never felt it necessary to explain or justify Vader before. As Piett understood it, the imperial elites' distrust of the Sith Lord actually amused him.

This smacked of intrigue. He _hated_ intrigued almost as much as he did court.

In that respect he and Vader _were_ alike.

When at last the two men reached the private shuttle hangar, Piett was surprised to find the entire command crew standing outside the ship. Hastily, they all bowed, and the pilot—a slim blond woman Piett recognized from the boarding party on Coruscant—stepped forward to engage them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Piett demanded, briskly. The woman snapped him a harried salute. Her forehead was slick with sweat, and the sleek new uniform did little to hide the tension in her shoulders and neck. "Why is your crew not preparing for the flight?"

"I'm sorry...admiral..." She turned to the Emperor, half-appealing, half-chastened. "My lord, we —"

The Emperor held up a hand to silence her.

"It is quite alright, captain. It is as I expected." He shot Piett a conspiratorial look. "Lord Vader ordered you off the shuttle, did he not?"

Immediately the pilot straightened up into a defensive posture.

"I assure you, Emperor Palpatine, this shuttle has been checked and rechecked—the _Relentless_ has the finest security team in the Empire, there was no need for anything—"

"I am sure, captain. Neither Admiral Piett nor myself are in any doubt." He fixed his gaze on the landing ramp. "Where is the engine room of such a shuttle found?"

"The...the engine room, my lord?"

"The engine room, yes," The Emperor repeated, the very model of patience. She blinked, too surprised and terrified to do anything but answer.

"In the lower rear compartment of the ship—below the cockpit."

"Thank you, captain." He glided past her and Piett. "We shall return shortly with Lord Vader."

Piett was so taken aback he had to jog to rejoin his liege.

"Where do you imagine we will find him?" the Emperor asked, as they entered the modified _Lambda_ -class shuttle. "If you were checking the security of an imperial shuttle of this nature, where would you go first?"

"The cockpit, naturally."

"Lord Vader is not in the cockpit," Palpatine answered, evenly, with the air of a well-bred schoolmaster. "What can we conclude, then?"

Piett glanced down the one long corridor of the ship—the cockpit was, just as the Emperor said, empty.

"That he is—" he hesitated, and swallowed. His mouth felt unnaturally dry. "That Lord Vader is... _not_ checking the pilots' security protocols."

"Are you aware, Admiral Piett, that in addition to his many other gifts, Lord Vader has a considerable talent for mechanics?"

"Of course," He followed the Emperor down a narrow service ladder to the bowels of the ship. "Lord Vader often oversees the droid and ship maintenance on the _Executor_. And he does not allow anyone else to service his personal fighter."

"Does he not?" Palpatine asked, mildly interested. "Unsurprising. Mechanics are a second nature to him—one might say a 'way of life.' When he is...distressed, I have often known him to use whatever flimsy pretext he can to take apart a ship engine or droid and...tinker."

The way that the Emperor spoke of Vader—more like an amusing child than a trusted lieutenant —made the hairs on the back of Piett's neck stand up.

"The engine room, your majesty."

Palpatine considered the utilitarian door.

"The access code—you know it?" Piett nodded. "Then by all means, after you."

Piett punched in the six digit code, his palms slick with sweat. The door slid open, and with one last sideways look at Palpatine, he walked forward and around the corner.

Though he'd been warned, the middle-aged and consummate military man still had to stifle an exclamation.

"Lord—Lord Vader!"

The floor was littered with so many engine parts that it looked more like a repair shop or droid reclamation center than the heart of a royal shuttle. His commander's cape—all known galactic deities help him, it was detached and hung up on a peg next to _power cables._

As for his lord...the powerful black legs stuck out from underneath the ship's hyperdrive containment chamber, looking for all who came into the room like those of a mechanic droid.

"Admiral?" the muffled voice was still intimidating, even from underneath a tangle of wires. "What are you—"

"Lord Vader," a soft, amiable voice greeted from behind Piett's shoulder. The clanging of a hydrospanner being dropped on the durasteel floor echoed through the entire lower compartment. "I hope we are not disturbing you."

Faster than Piett could have guessed was possible, Vader pushed out from underneath the bowels of the ship and practically scrambled to his feet.

He wouldn't have believed his commander was capable of _scrambling_.

"Master—" He made a flustered movement with his torso, as though to kneel—but with just a look, the Emperor stilled and silenced him.

"I trust the ship's security was agreeable to you?" His yellowed eyes lingered on the engine parts strewn about the compartment.

"I—" Piett's presence obviously made the Sith's embarrassment tenfold. Never had the admiral felt more akin to Vader; this was excruciating. "I noticed a discrepancy in the ship's steering and so I—"

"—Saw fit to correct it?" the Emperor finished for him, lightly. "I can understand that, my friend. I am only surprised you did not delegate the task to one of the engineers. They were, after all, hand-selected by _you_ for this trip."

The sovereign stooped and picked up a rusted power converter delicately, as though it was a piece of fruit that had fallen from a tree.

"The work needed to be done quickly, master."

"Ah—I _see_." He dropped it back on the ground. The sharp clang perfectly accented his irony. "Better _that_ than the second-in-command of the Empire lacking faith in its best and brightest." His surveyed the chaos in the room dispassionately. "You know we are set to depart in less than an hour?"

"It will be in full working order with time to spare," Vader insisted—and unless he was mistaken, the admiral now heard annoyance in the deep basso voice.

"Admiral," Piett stepped forward, hesitantly. "You have some experience with ship mechanics, don't you?"

"Yes, my lord—erm, some."

"Good." He turned back towards the door. "Assist Lord Vader with his— _repair work_ —and when it is done you will both rejoin me in the upper cabin."

"Yes, your majesty." Vader only bowed.

Without another word, Palpatine glided out of the room again. Vader's shoulders slumped. He and his admiral stared at each other, prolonging the discomfort—before Piett broke off his eye contact with those unfathomable optical lenses and began to unbutton his dress uniform's high- collared overcoat.

"What are you doing, Admiral Piett?" Vader asked, in a subdued voice.

"Preparing to assist you—" He hung the coat up next to his superior's shroud. "—In returning the engine to working order."

"That will not be necessary." Vader brushed past his lieutenant, who was now rolling up his sleeves. "I am perfectly capable of completing the modifications myself."

"I'm certain that's true, my lord." Piett picked up the toolkit—which promptly floated out of his hands. "But if I do not at least make an attempt to assist I will be ignoring the direct orders of the Emperor."

Vader ignored the quip.

"You may stand _there_ , admiral. Out of the way."

He watched his superior piece the engine back together with quiet awe. Vader had not been exaggerating his abilities; he had no need for help, but he tolerated Piett's presence, even allowing him to find a tool or supply a necessary instrument when convenient.

"Where are the moff and the governor?" he asked, as Piett handed him a power coupling. "Do they await us in the cabin as well?"

The Sith worked quickly, with a practiced, methodical precision that suggested it _was_ second nature to him.

"To the best of my knowledge they obeyed the Emperor and returned to their quarters."

"Why are you not also there?"

"Emperor Palpatine asked that I...accompany him to the shuttle directly."

Vader stopped screwing the bolt in.

"You have never had private words with the Emperor."

"No, my lord."

He resumed his work.

"How did you find it?"

"An...unsettling experience. I had the most distinct sensation—" Piett hesitated.

"—That you were being tested?"

"Yes." Vader pushed out from under the chamber and replaced the last covering on the case where the hyperdrive was cradled. "Very good, Lord Vader."

"Do you believe you passed the test?" he asked, ignoring the compliment.

"Difficult to say. Perhaps I will never know."

"The Emperor is not in the habit of leaving such matters open to interpretation."

Not for the first time, he wished he could see his commander's face. As it was, he could almost feel Vader's warning humming in the air.

He took it under advisement.

"Then I imagine I will find out before this state visit is over."

" _That_ cannot come soon enough," The Sith's voice darkened. "Your—uniform, Admiral Piett."

The smaller man looked down at his sleeves and shirt front. In spite of his best efforts, they were covered in engine grease.

"You didn't fair much better, my lord," he said, pointing to a glob of oil on his lordship's boot.

Vader looked down and made a short noise that might have been a scoff. His vocoder made it difficult to tell.

"I will have a droid look to it. As for you—"

"There is a spare uniform stored here." Piett tapped smartly on the wall. "It's standard issue for any _Lambda_ -class shuttle to carry extra rank uniforms for everyone on board. Of course, it won't be as formal..." He tugged at his dress collar. "But I shall feel more comfortable in that anyway."

Vader reached for the peg where his cape hung and refastened it. He fumbled for a moment— Piett almost considered asking if he needed help—before it was secure.

He was Darth Vader again.

"As soon as the _Executor's_ maintenance work is complete we will return to Coruscant and leave. I want you in constant communication with the engineers, admiral."

"I... happened to speak to the chief engineer before our last hyperspace jump, my lord, and he —" He swallowed and coughed, nervously. Lord Vader was doing a final inspection of his handiwork. "He had just gotten off a priority comm with—Mas Amedda." The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "There is a new directive. It seems that the _Executor_ may not leave Coruscant until...the Emperor has given his final approval."

Vader's gauntleted hand froze on the metal hatch of the hyperdrive.

"My lord—"

Without another word the Sith turned around and stalked out of the engine room. The 750 kilo durasteel door slammed shut behind him of its own accord.

Piett flinched.

* * *

 _Naboo._

Luke could not take his eyes off the small green planet beneath his ship. The moment he had come out of hyperspace the anticipatory tightness in the pilot's stomach had given way to giddiness. He thought of the wedding holo, still tucked away in Artoo's memory bank, and smiled.

This place was a part of him, just as Tatooine was. As soon as he laid eyes on his mother's planet, he had known this was a homecoming.

 _A part of_ me _began here._

Luke was so fixated on Naboo as he flew his X-Wing from the night to day side that when he looked up to check his flight path he nearly let go of his controls.

"Woah—check out all these imperial ships!" The younger Skywalker let out a low whistle. "I knew there was a lot of Imp activity here because it's the Emperor's home world, but I didn't think it'd be _this_ unfriendly."

 _Is it possible something happened?_

"Nah—if there was a military altercation here, we'd know about it." It was comforting to think Threepio was not here to interpret the doubt in his voice to Artoo. "Still, watch out."

He swooped down to get in line with a series of smaller crafts, all waiting for approval from the planet to enter atmosphere.

"Let's hope that identifier code Leia gave me throws them off the scent long enough to get us to Theed."

He was excited to learn more about his mother, the young pilot repeated to himself, as he muttered the cover story he'd invented under his breath. That was where this unsettled feeling he couldn't shake came from. He pushed it back down. Nerves—that's all it was, nerves.

"Alright, old buddy—here...we... _go_!"


	2. Chapter 2

Considering the occasion, Piett thought, the party surrounding Emperor Palpatine was grim. Perhaps it was the oddly matched pairs on imperial shuttle _Delta_ that lent to the lack of festivity. The Emperor and Vader stood at the view screen, where the queen would very soon be patched in to formally greet his majesty. Not far from them, Governor Tychum was, in an undertone, unleashing a string of his personal anxieties about the Empire Day celebration on Moff Bratton, who had managed to procure a drink and clearly wished it was stronger.

 _He_ was left to make small talk with the young copilot, who'd come out of the cockpit to relay their time of arrival in the capital city.

"How did you find the steering, Galen?" he asked, in a low voice. The young man turned, clearly surprised that an admiral of Piett's caliber would know his name.

"It's funny you should mention that, sir. I've driven _Lambda-_ class shuttles dozens of times, but I've never been behind one that's this light to the touch."

Piett smiled.

"If you get a moment, you should tell Lord Vader. He worked on this shuttle himself—"

"Are you trying to get this poor lad killed, Piett?" a voice murmured in his ear. "What a morbid sense of humor you've developed."

Piett pivoted on his heel and found himself face-to-face with Moff Bratton, callous amusement shining in his eyes. Apparently tired of the governor's company, and lacking any other options, he had fixed his sights on Piett as his next verbal sparring partner.

After his unsettling conversation with Emperor Palpatine, Piett almost looked forward to the inevitable banality.

"Anton," he answered, opting for the given name he was entitled by rank to use. The Moff smiled and took another swig of his wine. A dismissive glance was the only order Galen needed, and the young pilot quickly bowed and excused himself.

"You must be looking forward to whatever choice command placement you're given, Firmus," Bratton continued, when they were alone. "When it's all over, I mean."

"I don't think it likely I'll be moved any time soon," he replied, stiffly.

Over the rim of his glass, the moff gave him a shrewd look.

"You haven't heard the rumors, then. Everyone on Coruscant is certain that the Rebellion's complete destruction is imminent."

That Bratton would think to lecture _him_ on the state of military matters was laughable, but he humored him.

"And that assumption is based on...?" Piett asked, dryly.

" _Look_ at him."

Piett followed Bratton's eyes to their resting place: Lord Vader, who stood as still as a statue next to the Emperor, now conversing with the young Queen Apollonia.

"The Empire's most favored son." His mouth curled around the words, as though he found them distasteful. "What other reason could there be for Vader's apparent _ascendancy_?"

"You presume their relationship is like that of any monarch and courtier," Piett murmured. What _he_ had seen an hour before in the engine room defied description. Lord Vader had seemed...almost vulnerable under Palpatine's scrutiny.

 _Rewarding_ him had clearly not been on the Emperor's mind.

"You don't swallow Vader's claims to disinterested monasticism, do you, Piett?" Bratton snorted, inelegantly knocking back the rest of his glass of wine. "He's no different than the rest of us, trust me—he only lacks finesse. At every public assembly and privy council since Vader returned to Imperial Center he has been dragged in front of us all, and we are bid do him homage. I forget, did you go to the banquet?"

"I couldn't—I had to oversee the transfer of _Executor_ personnel to the _Relentless._ "

"You missed a complete farce," Bratton chortled, humorlessly. "A banquet held in honor of a man who no one, to my knowledge, has ever seen eat."

"You should be careful, Anton—your voice carries," Piett warned, glancing at the other end of the room. He doubted the Emperor's advanced age had impaired his hearing in the slightest.

"He can't touch me—not here." Bratton's flinty blue eyes narrowed in on Vader. "And after the unpleasantness of that evening I'm not inclined to be polite."

"He probably enjoyed it even less than you did." He looked down at Bratton's now empty glass with envy. "Lord Vader is not one to stand on ceremony."

"You think the Emperor throws him a feast for his _own_ amusement?"

Piett didn't answer. Sensing they weren't likely to ever agree on this subject, Bratton changed his tact.

"Never been to Naboo, have you, Firmus?" he asked, and they both turned to study the flickering image of the planet's girl-queen on the holo. She wore the ornamental garb and oppressive makeup that he knew, from the debriefing before this voyage, was customary for all Nubian monarchs. If he had not known she was sixteen, Piett would have guessed her at least ten years older.

The attire lent her stateliness.

"I never had any cause before now."

"Pretty spot. Capital's built on a waterfall. The Naboo are a throwback, definitely favor tradition and form over...practicality." His eyes lingered on Apollonia's elaborately painted face. "Hard to believe it's where _he_ came from."

The queen inclined her head to Palpatine, and her image winked out of view.

"What are you and Admiral Piett discussing so furtively, Moff?" the Emperor asked, turning around. "Lord Vader and myself are most curious."

"I was merely commenting on the many interesting local customs of the Naboo, my lord," Bratton lied, smoothly. "As he's never had the pleasure."

"Oh?" the Emperor's eyes flashed beneath his hood. "And what did you make of her majesty, admiral? From your limited view over there, of course."

"I was—surprised at her youth," he said, diplomatically.

"You think it strange—I can see it on your face, do not deny it," The Emperor's thin smile curled. "Child monarchs are a time-honored tradition in Theed, Admiral Piett. Apollonia is by no means the _youngest_ in the planet's history."

Vader's optical lenses were still fixed on the place where her image had just disappeared. Though he gave no sign he was listening, Piett had the distinct impression the comment was meant for him.

"What did think of her apparel of state, Bratton?"

"Charming—a very quaint provincialism, I'm sure." The dark figure at the Emperor's right slowly turned around. "I suppose there's some, ah—cultural significance to the headdress?"

"Undoubtedly—but I fear my heraldic history has groan rusty on Coruscant."

"It is meant to evoke the Nubian moon goddess, Shiraya," Vader said, suddenly. "The fans are shaped like a crescent moon."

Heavy silence followed this unexpected contribution.

"I believe there is a symbology to her face makeup," the Emperor said, breaking it. His eyes glinted with that unfettered love of sport that marks any great hunter. "As you are the apparent _expert_ on this subject, tell me, Lord Vader—is that not so?"

Now that everyone in the room, including the Emperor, was focused on him—Vader shifted, visibly self- conscious.

"It is."

"And can you plum the depths of your knowledge of Naboo cosmology to—interpret for Moff Bratton?"

"I do not consider myself an expert—"

"You have already proven yourself more of one than anyone else present," Palpatine pointed out. "On the left side there was a rather unusual painted flower. Explain it to us." He tilted his head in a faintly sinister facsimile of playfulness. "There is no cause for false humility _,_ my friend. I'm sure you know the bloom."

"It's a—ryoo. A mountain daisy," Vader answered, haltingly, his back more ramrod straight than usual. "In violet to signify the Imperial visit."

"And the four yellow lines below it—?"

"—Represent the moff, the governor, the admiral and...me."

"The shape of the flower itself seemed...unusual." One gnarled hand traced the shape in the air. "A pronged stem and three petals?"

"Twenty-three." Vader paused. "For twenty-three years."

"Twenty-three glorious years," Palpatine repeated, closing his eyes and savoring the words. "So then it is a _celebratory_ welcome with which we are greeted."

He turned to Vader, expectantly—but the impassive Sith Lord did not answer.

"That bodes ominously, my friend," he said, clicking his tongue. "What of the right side? Admiral, did you happen to mark it?"

"Ah—some geometric pattern, my lord—dotted lines," Piett struggled to recall. It had all looked the same to his eyes. Vader's recollection of the asinine details astounded him—and judging from their gaping mouths, the moff and admiral as well.

"Tears," Vader supplied, roughly. "The right side is a traditional mourning mask."

"What a puzzle. The same face that welcomes, weeps." He looked up at Vader's mask—a piercing gaze. "Surely you are not suggesting that the queen has some cause to _mourn_?"

"I..." Vader turned back to the viewscreen. "I do not know enough about her to guess."

"But you are a fastidious studier of royals—you relayed her meaning quite clearly to _me_." Palpatine steepled his fingers. "What else can I assume but that the ruler of my home world mourns my Empire?"

"I—I am sure Queen Apollonia meant nothing of the kind, my lord!" the governor interjected nervously. "She—and the rest of the Chommell Sector, we are—are deeply loyal to you and your—"

"It could be a personal loss," Vader said, quietly. He was still facing away from Palpatine, his gauntleted hands clenched in tight fists at his sides. "It does not have to be anything else."

"But do you think it very likely, Lord Vader?" Palpatine asked, calmly, ignoring Tychum's stuttered protests. "Is it likely that a queen would allow _personal grief_ interfere with her duties and responsibilities?"

Vader wheeled back around so violently that Tychum actually took a step backward to avoid being whipped by his cloak. The Sith tilted his helmet down towards the much smaller man, who next to him looked frail, and for a moment Piett thought he would witness his commander unleash his infamous temper on the _Emperor._

He had nothing to fear, though. The look Emperor Palpatine gave Vader was so _penetrative_ it had a near instant cowing effect on his servant.

Whatever blunt reply Lord Vader had been ready to give, it died as quickly as if he himself had choked the life out of it.

"...Not likely, master—but possible," he answered at last, his deep voice subdued. "The sublimation of personal feelings to duty would not wipe away their existence."

Whether this answer satisfied the Emperor was difficult to tell. His yellowed eyes remained fixed on Vader, unblinking. It was not until the Sith bowed his head in gesture of unambiguous submission that the ruler's apparent pique dissipated.

"You see the effect of the planet, Governor Tychum? Naboo softens all." He broke the gaze and turned to the governor. "Not even _Lord Vader_ is immune."

The silence in the shuttle cabin was deafening.

"Naboo's beauty must surely have a—a pacifying effect on all that behold her," Tychum said, in what Piett considered a rare moment of deftness.

"Surely it must," Palpatine agreed. "Remind me, governor—there is a visit to Theed Palace and an audience with the queen before the celebration scheduled, isn't there?"

Tychum fumbled for his data pad.

"Yes, your majesty—a private audience with you and the queen, very brief. Then you're set to reconvene with us at the Botanical Gardens—"

"Cancel that, governor. Instead—" He turned his hooded face a fraction of an inch in Vader's direction. "We shall _all_ do a full tour of Theed Palace. You, Moff Bratton, and Admiral Piett have yet to experience its beauty yourselves, after all."

"You honor us, my Emperor." The moff bowed slightly, and Piett and Tychum followed suit.

"Lord Vader, _you_ will join me in the throne room for my audience with the queen." Vader was so still he looked like part of a schoolboy's Empire Day tableau. "After all, who better to accompany and interpret her for me? She will have changed her regalia by then."

"Security protocols will not be alterable at this late hour," Vader said, dully.

There was something in the Sith Lord's voice Piett had never heard there before: resignation. He didn't like it.

"Ah, what does that matter if I am with you, my friend?" The Emperor waved off the concern with a faint smile. He fixed his sights on Piett. "Admiral, tell me—do you enjoy art?"

"I—I am not an expert, by any means—" Piett glanced between Vader and Palpatine, feeling the palpable rumbling of something wholly beyond him to understand. "But I would consider any society that did not place a value on it lacking."

"Well, then—we must be sure to stop by the Royal Hall of Portraiture. In that place history and beauty are one..." He turned back towards the viewport, and once again his face was hidden from sight. "I think you will find it most elucidating."

***  
Since she had received his glib message, Aphra had Luke's private comm on constant, pinging alert.

Either the kid had managed to turn it off—impossible, as the battery had about the same half-life as a subatomic thermal detonator and she hadn't designed it with an off switch—or he had left it behind at the Rebel base. It would be risky for Luke, _dangerous_ , if he was found to have such a powerful, non-Rebel issued comm—but only for his future in the Alliance, the doctor reasoned, which she had serious doubts about anyway.

After twelve hours of being ignored, she decided to bank on the second explanation and go ahead with plan two.

"Sorry, kiddo," she muttered under her breath, pressing several buttons on the ship's switchboard at once. One of her droids plugged into the computer and started transferring a high-pitch, whirring code. "But you've always got to have a back-up plan..."

 _He isn't going to like this one bit._

Leia sank into Luke's bunk and absently smoothed the covers of his tiny cot. When he was off on missions without her—as he so often was these days—the princess had taken to coming to his room in her rare free moments. She knew it wasn't rational...there were very few personal touches to mark it as any different from the hundreds of sleep quarters on the _Home One_ , but she felt...closer to him, here. As though she could _feel_ Luke, that some aspect of his presence lingered.

The truth was he was distant from her even when they were together.

From the moment he charged into her cell on the Death Star and proclaimed that he was "here to rescue her," Luke Skywalker had been a burst of unexpected sunlight in Leia's life, blistering as his desert home world. The princess had felt a near- _instant_ affinity. She was as comfortable with him as she had been at odds with Han—at least at first.

Luke was that rare—perhaps, if she was being honest with herself, the first—person for whom status, her duty, the obligations she felt to her family, Alderaan, and the Galaxy at large...were secondary. He admired her for the person she would have been if her parents had never adopted her.

If she was just Leia, not _the Princess Leia Organa._

Leia bit her lip and tried to picture this hypothetical version of herself . She couldn't muster the confidence in Luke's image of her—and she wondered, tracing her fingers over his metal bedpost, whether even he could, now.

Luke had changed.

Since Bespin, a pall had fallen over him—and it wasn't just the loss of Han that haunted her friend, whatever she'd told herself at first. Nor was it the shock of his injury.

Her friend had been unalterably transformed by what had happened.

Now he rarely smiled and never laughed. He was much quieter than she had ever seen him, distant— secretive, as though the weight of the entire Alliance's cares rested on his shoulders. Luke had admitted he was holding back when he returned from his failed mission on Florrum. He had _things to figure_ out. His promise to tell her what was going on when he got back to the base had, paradoxically, increased her trepidation.

Maybe it was where he was returning from.

She hugged her knees and shivered. When he had asked her for help getting past the security surrounding Naboo, she had been so eager for the promise of his return, Leia's mind hadn't lingered on the _why_. She looked over at Threepio, who stood dutifully at her side, as always, and shivered again. Leia had a bad feeling about it. She couldn't shake the sense of trepidation she had about Luke on Naboo.

 _I learned something about my past, Leia. I can't let it go._

That was well and good, she thought, glaring at Luke's threadbare synthetic blanket, but was now _really_ the time to go soul-searching?

That wasn't being fair to Luke, she knew it. Leia was a creature of action, not of introspection—and though she was sure her friend would deny it in his usual self-effacing way, Luke's connection to the Force had given him a patience she lacked entirely. They'd both lost so much, but while Luke was trying to understand it, she could only press forward as she always had...working, fighting, doing things. Anything to stave off sleep, and the dreams of that slab of carbonite falling on the chamber floor, the terrible clang of finality that made her wake up screaming more than once—

The image of the black mask she always saw right before she woke up flashed through her mind. The princess balled her fist.

 _She_ knew who was to blame.

 _Vader._

He had traded Han to Fett like chips in a sabaac game, and whatever Luke had lost...besides his hand and his _innocence_...Vader was behind it. She could not easily forget her friend after his duel, battered and in pain, his right hand severed at the wrist, deliriously alternating between calling out for Ben Kenobi and repeating Vader's name _over and over._

Her one goal after they lost Han had been to keep Luke away from Vader at all costs. When they were apart, now, Leia felt near-constant anxiety, as though she was the only thing in the universe standing between her friend and _him_ —

Suddenly, her comm went haywire.

"What the—!" Leia pulled the wailing device out of her pocket and threw it on the bed. The shrieking ring was deafening—a sound she'd never heard before, twice as loud as any noise it had ever produced. It was as though it was in _stereo_ , but that was impossible, the speakers on it weren't that—

"Mistress Leia—look!" She looked over to where the protocol droid was pointing—Luke's closet. Then she saw it, buried underneath a spare set of sheets—blinking bright red.

It wasn't in stereo—the hidden device was emitting an identical noise, doubling the impact. One hand covering an ear, the princess hurried to the closet and pulled out the contraption. Throwing caution to the wind, she pressed the first button she saw. The sound cut for both devices.

"Oh, thank the _Maker_ , I thought my censors would short-circuit for sure."

"So did I, Threepio." Leia, still staring at the thing in her hand, patted him on his arm, distracted.

Without the racket, she was able to examine the mysterious comm unencumbered. It looked...like nothing more or less than a custom communication unit. It wasn't Luke's—but that begged the question.

 _How did this get in his room?_

The indicator light for an incoming transmission flashed bright red.

"Your highness—" The golden protocol droid stiffly bent over and looked down at the device. "It would appear that communication unit is sending an ancient—and if I might add, rather _arcane_ distress signal."

She turned her head sharply in his direction, instantly alert.

"Who would have knowledge of such a code?"

"A person of some education on the subject of military-grade robotics, I should think," he answered, matter-of-factly. "This code is now only used by the Droid Gotra—and their associates."

 _The Droid Gotra..._ none of this made sense, they had _no reason_ to involve themselves with the Alliance _or_ help the Empire. Had someone _planted_ this thing on Luke without his knowledge?

"Are they...dangerous?" She lifted up her comm, blinking wildly. "Is _this_ dangerous?"

"Forgive me, Princess—but whoever is sending that signal has enough technical prowess that whether you answer or not, there is a strong likelihood..." he hesitated. "That they already know our location."

"So what you're saying—" Leia stared at the comm in her hand, the prudence her father had cultivated in her at war with her instincts—the instincts that were telling her to do the exact opposite of what a responsible leader of the Alliance should. "—Is that we have nothing to lose by seeing who it is and what they want."

"Princess, I advised _no_ such—"

"Priority signal received and acknowledged," Leia said into the receiver, cutting her protocol droid off. The other end crackled, and Leia thought she heard faint cursing. "I repeat, your signal is received and acknowledged. Identify yourself."

" _...Luke's already left, hasn't he?"_

It was a woman's voice. Her cursing was now audible—and in several different languages, if Threepio's shocked reaction was any indicator.

"Who is this?" Leia demanded, her heart plunging. "How did you—how did you get this communication device into—who are you?"

" _Let's just call me a_ concerned party _and leave it at that. Now...has he left the rebel base yet?"_

 _Luke._

Somehow she'd _known_. This unsettled feeling she'd been incapable of shaking off all day...it had been Luke.

"I'm not answering any questions until I know _who_ I'm speaking to!" she said, mild panic creeping into her usually even voice. "Identify yourself, or I'll—"

" _Look, princess—I'm taking a stab in the dark about your identity, but even if I'm wrong, it suits you— nobody is going after your 'hidden' base. What I'm concerned about is Luke Skywalker and whether he's left it yet."_

"Who said Luke was going anywhere?" Leia asked, knowing full-well this was an idiotic deflection. This woman—whoever she was—knew what _they_ were. She clearly knew more than Leia, at the very least.

Luke _had_ been keeping secrets.

" _Funny you should mention that—_ he _did, in this voicemail he just left me. He wanted to know if I could pull any strings and get the Naboo blockade lifted."_ There was a pause, and the wry tone turned serious. " _The kid didn't know_ how _funny he was being."_

"What does _that_ mean?"

" _I don't have time to dispatch a diplomatic communiqué here—I just need to speak to Luke—"_

"Tell me what you're talking about, _now_ ," she demanded, fiercely. "Or I...I blast this thing out of the first airlock I see."

There was a long pause and then a heavy, resigned sigh.

" _The Emperor is going home for the holidays, your highness."_

 _No._

"Palpatine is on Naboo?" Leia's voice sounded distant to her own ears. "For—Empire Day?"

She sank down into Luke's cot and covered her mouth, afraid she was going to be sick. Her inescapable dread...not even she could have imagined _this_ was the cause.

" _Last minute change of plans. It hasn't been highly publicized, which is why the kid doesn't realize he's about to crash the galaxy's biggest imperial bash."_

"And you were..." She stared down at the comm, trying to glean some comfort from the mysterious woman on the other side. "You were trying to _warn_ him?"

" _My...employer is very interested in keeping Luke Skywalker away from his royal majesty."_ The woman on the other end cut off the question before Leia could form the words. " _I can get a warning on the ground there to run interference on the Imperial side. Can you get a message to Luke? I can't reach him— you must've found the comm I gave him, right?"_

" _Gave_ him—when did you _give him_ this device?" She turned from Threepio and hissed into the microphone. "Just who the _hell_ are you?"

" _A friend, trust me,"_ the woman said, harshly. " _The only one you've got right now that counts. Just call me 'Doctor.' Can you get a message to the kid or not?"_

The responsible thing would be to consult with Mon Mothma and the rest of the High Council, do a diagnostic on the device, run a recording of this doctor's voice through all of the known speech recognition programs and find out who she was. But all of that would take time.

She didn't have time.

"I can," Leia said, her voice steely. "And if I can't, I'll go get him myself."

The doctor laughed.

" _You're the most wanted person in the Empire after him, you really think—"_

"I've got contacts of my own on Naboo—I know my way around Theed. I _will_ reach Luke if I have to."

" _It seems like more trouble than it's worth, princess,"_ the doctor reasoned. " _Isn't there anyone else who can go?"_

"No one I trust," she said, eyes hardening. Chewbacca was still with Lando scouting out Tatooine, and there wasn't any time to wait for them. She would have to go it alone.

And then another horrible thought seized her—the one that should have been obvious to her from the start.

"What about Vader?"

There was a another staticky pause.

" _He's...not the one you need to be worried about, your highness,"_ the doctor answered, carefully.

"So he'll be there, too?"

That dispelled any doubts she still had about going after her friend.

" _The_ Emperor _is the one—"_

"You don't know what Vader is—what he'll do to get Luke," Leia said, clenching her fist. Her nails dug into the flesh of her palm—at last the numbness had left her. That was good. She would need her senses for what came next. "I'm _not_ going to let him find out Luke's there."

A rattling sigh followed this pronouncement.

" _I've got the same goal, trust me."_

* * *

"I've never seen this many troops in one place, Artoo—" Instinct had Luke pressing his back against walls and around corners more than once as he made his way into Theed city proper. "At least not in any place where a _battle_ wasn't going on."

The droid's beeping sounded worried.

"Yeah, buddy, I agree—people around here sure know how to celebrate Empire Day."

They had only very narrowly managed to land Luke's ship. The code Leia gave him back at the base saved him, undoubtedly, but the flight controller had not listened to his bogus "recreational and wildlife field research" explanation without suspicion. The young pilot was a little afraid his luck would not hold and he'd be stranded here. The ship traffic and security had forced him to land on the outskirts of the city. When he'd asked the reason, the only reply he'd gotten was a very nasty, _are-you-stupid?_ laugh.

But there was something else that worried him.

By now, Aphra had received the message Luke realized had been very impulsive to leave. Would she actually call his father and pass on his invitation to meet? He'd offered it half in jest at the time...but Luke knew there had been a glimmer of his own misbegotten hope at work, too.

He wanted a chance to speak to his father when they weren't fighting each other or being shot at.

His chances of that _here_ were slim, probably nonexistent. Aphra's survival instincts had surely kicked in the moment she heard his childish request. If the doctor was foolish enough to pass it on, Vader would realize very quickly that everything Luke knew about Padmé Amidala he'd learned on _her_ ship.

His father had been strident in discouraging Luke pursuing the subject.

Unfortunately for Darth Vader, the scant knowledge his son had acquired from Aphra had only left the boy hungry for more.

Luke felt buoyed by a sense of mission. He knew—or felt, it was not an intellectual sense at work—that the key to understanding his past...and the darkness that held his father captive...was on his mother's home world.

 _She's the key to everything._

"Let's think, Artoo. Everything I've found out tells me that she was really popular—there has to be a memorial or something..." Artoo whistled. "What I _really_ want is to talk to someone who actually knew her." Artoo snorted. "Yeah, well, I'd like to get something out of _him_ , too, but no luck so far."

They ducked into an alleyway where another battalion of stormtroopers clomped past. _I wonder if there's some political unrest on the planet the Alliance doesn't know about._ His natural sense of curiosity warred with the urgency of the personal mission. The Alliance _would_ free this planet eventually, he had to keep reminding himself of that—be patient, Master Yoda had said.

And this was the right place—the place he needed to be right now.

Luke's eyes fell on the doorway of a small cafe across a bricked and narrow side street. Like every business he'd come across in suburban Theed, it was empty. This one, at least, had an open sign. It was odd, though, how deserted the city was, especially considering the occasion. The pilot would've thought Empire Day celebrations were mandatory on Palpatine's home world, but things seemed anything but celebratory.

"Well, buddy...it's a local joint," He squinted and peered into the warped glass window. "I guess they'll be the ones to know."

He tapped the droid's dome and walked under the dark green awning and through the door.

The bar was empty, apart from a morose and balding bartender trying—with little success—to keep a slumped-over at the bar woman erect.

"If you're looking for a drink," he grunted, glancing over his shoulder at Luke. "There's a garrison of stormtroopers down the street currently imbibing a month's stock of my best stuff."

"Wild Empire Day party?" Luke asked, innocently. The bartender pulled a face.

"Hardly. No, my liquor was—requisitioned. I guess I can't complain, there are worse things that could happen to me today." Luke frowned in puzzlement—but before he could ask the man to elaborate, his inebriated charge lost her fight with gravity and slid to the floor. " _Damnit_ , Ruteé, _get up_ —what do you need, young man?"

"Not a drink!" The man gave up on helping Ruteé, and left her artistically strewn on the floor. Neatly, he stepped around to the other side of the bar. "And nothing illegal. Just information. I'm actually...looking for someone's grave."

Surprised, the bartender nodded, slowly.

"A cemetery?"

"Maybe. Would there be a special place where Nubian royals are buried?"

"That depends," the man said, now curious. "A lot of the Naboo ruling class have their own private burial plots and mausoleums. Who are you looking for—if you don't mind me asking?"

"Padmé Amidala."

A sad smile of recognition flickered across the man's face.

"Ah. Queen Amidala." His smile became pained. "I still remember her funeral—coming up on the anniversary of it in a few days."

Luke's own eager smile drooped.

"I guess it was broadcast everywhere, right?" Artoo let out a comforting hum and nudged his foot. "All over the planet?"

"It was—but I was there." Luke leaned forward, surprised. "Everyone who lived in Theed showed up to watch the procession—even people who didn't agree with her politics loved her. She was a real lady—a real _leader_." He returned to wiping down the bar. "Sometimes I wonder what she'd think of what the galaxy's become since she left us."

"You don't think she'd support the Empire, then?" Luke jumped on the man's words, eagerly.

He snorted.

"Are you joking? There was no stauncher a defender of the Republic than Padmé Amidala. It's ironic, really..."

"What's ironic?"

The bartender's eyebrow rose.

"When you consider her relationship with Palpatine, I mean."

Something in the pit of Luke's stomach tightened.

"What—what are you talking about? What _relationship_ with Palpatine?"

The woman on the floor groaned and covered her ears. The bartender stopped wiping the glass mid- rotation, faintly surprised at the vehemence of the boy's reaction.

"Well, they were _friends_ , supposedly. Amidala and Palpatine were linked at every major moment in their careers up until her death. During the Naboo invasion crisis, she was the one who personally called for the vote of no confidence that got him elected Supreme Chancellor, you know."

"No, I..."

He _hadn't_ know that. Luke's head spun with the weight of the information.

"At the time my Uncle Moteel said she _made_ him—" The Nubian man shrugged, unfazed at what was to him ancient history. "He couldn't have become Emperor without her, that's what Moteel said...he was a real royalist, though, I don't know if I believe it."

"She and the Emperor..." Palpatine and his mother... _that_ was too much to think about right now. Now he really wanted to speak to his father, embargo on the subject or not. He swallowed, hard. "Do people know...how she died?"

The man's eyes narrowed.

"Very mysterious, that. Queen—Senator Amidala, by then—was _pregnant_ when she died. She wasn't married, she had no known lovers...if it had happened at any other time in galactic history but _then_ , I think there would have been a public investigation. As it is...the child and the truth died with her."

Luke's heart plummeted.

 _They aren't even right about that.  
_

Only the _truth_ had died with Padmé, and her son, determined to get to the bottom of it, had already learned more than he'd bargained on.

He looked down at the drunken Ruteé and felt numb.

 _Why_ had it never occurred to him _how_ his mother died? His aunt and uncle were vague when he'd asked as a child—she passed away when he was an infant, that was what Aunt Beru had told Luke, but she didn't know anything more. He'd assumed it was in the months after his birth, of some space-born illness...but now he knew that his mother was not only a figure of galaxy-wide prominence—personally and politically connected with the _Emperor—_ but that her own people had believed her pregnant when her funeral procession was broadcast across the planet.

That could only mean her death had been...

 _Because of me._

"She must have an—impressive grave, then," he said, staring at the floor. "If she was...so beloved, I mean."

"There's a public memorial near the center of the city for _all_ of the Naboo royals—but with everything that's going on here today, there's no way it'll be open—"

"I'm only interested in where she's actually buried," Luke snapped—and when he saw the man's started expression a second later, regretted it. He wanted to pay his respect at his mother's final resting place, the fact that she was dead—the fact that giving birth to _him_ was probably what had killed her—was not this man's fault. "Sorry, I just..."

The man set the glass aside and stared hard at Luke. The boy fidgeted.

"Her mausoleum is in the gardens of the Royal Palace," he said, at last. "I'm sure I'll regret this, but I'll tell you—the estuaries up the road lead straight north through the town, ending at the palace."

Luke's head snapped up. "They do?"

"Young man..." The bartender's voice was gentle. "It's the _palace_. You couldn't get into the gardens on a normal day, let alone now, with all the _security_ —"

"Security doesn't matter," he said, and he felt the Force thrum through him with expectation. "I'll find a way. I _have_ to."

On the heels of this proclamation, the boy tapped his droid's dome again and sprang from his seat.

"Thank you so much!" he called over his shoulder. "You've been a real help!"

"Wait a minute—young man—!" The door slammed shut beside him and his mechanical friend. The bartender rushed over—the knob jammed for three crucial seconds—and he flung it open and rushed out the door.

"Don't you know the _Emperor_ is there?" he shouted after the retreating figure.

The boy was not _too_ distant...but as the words didn't slow him down, the bartender guessed he hadn't heard.

"That boy is in for a surprise," he murmured, under his breath.

Ruteé hiccuped her agreement.


	3. Chapter 3

The Naboo Royal Hall of Portraiture was a vast, cavernous and airy room. Piett felt dwarfed by it, in spite of his military inclination not to be over-awed by the splendor of civilian power. Beauty was the watchword in this place, not strength—the arched ceiling beams were meant, he could see, to evoke the cascading waterfalls that surrounded the city. It gave the person craning their neck upward the impression of being underwater.

Which was appropriate, really, because everyone on this trip was _drowning_.

It quickly became clear to Piett that Governor Tychum had been assigned the lofty position of managing the Emperor's mid-rim home sector by dint of his father's industrial interests, not because he had any natural talent for the job. Tychum was intelligent enough to recognize how out of his depth he was, but not enough to realize the Emperor knew—and, moreover, enjoyed making sport of the man with malicious precision. Moff Bratton seemed to think he was in on this joke, and though Palpatine egged on his sycophantic displays, his contempt for the upstart was obvious—even if Bratton was choosing not to see it.

it was plain to anyone with an iota of sense that both men had been selected for their Emperor's use, not that their charms.

The only thing Palpatine really seemed to care about was Lord Vader.

They—Tychum, Bratton, himself, the whole planet, it felt at times—were props in a show being put on by the Emperor for his loyal second's benefit. Every laconic reply from Vader, every brush-off, every refusal to rise to Palpatine's bait—be it the pointed comments insinuating Tychum had mismanaged the sector's military assets, or the sly questions about the rumors of Bratton's lovers—only seemed to make the old man _more_ charming.

And more persistent.

The Emperor probably hadn't needed to _woo_ anyone since before his reign began. He was out of practice, but he hadn't forgotten.

Piett leaned over the ornate statue of a king of some forty years before. He studied the face— lined, older than most in this lineup. The Naboo apparently favored the bloom of youth over wisdom in their rulers—though...

"King Veruna cuts quite the impressive figure, does he not?"

Piett jumped. The Admiral pulled his eyes away from the statue he had barely seen, for all his staring—and turned them towards the small figure who stood at the doorway.

"I cannot tell if it's the king himself, or the artist's interpretation at work."

"The artist, I assure you." Emperor Palpatine slowly approached him, languidly scanning the empty hall. He stopped at the foot of the gigantic, imposing statue—nearly thirty meters high, it towered over the man. Piett was struck by an odd stray thought—that the effect was not unlike when he stood by Vader.

Somehow, the Emperor had the ability to make him look smaller.

"He was weak," Palpatine murmured, looking up at Veruna with grim satisfaction. "But like many weak men, he served his purpose. We all of us have our parts to pay, admiral."

Piett cleared his throat. After a minute the old man looked back at him.

"It would appear that—in your enthusiasm for the gallery—you've fallen behind, Admiral Piett."

"I was struck by a few pieces, my lord." He put his hands behind his back. "And, I confess, I was...preoccupied."

"So lost in your thoughts you managed to lose Bratton and Tychum as well." Piett smiled and glanced over the Emperor's shoulder.

"Just as you—forgive me, your majesty—seem to have lost Lord Vader."

The Emperor's placid expression did not change, but when they locked eyes, a wave of icy cold seeped slowly through Piett, like blood in a glass of water, and he wondered if he'd just made a very grave miscalculation.

"Do you think I've _lost_ Lord Vader, admiral?" the Emperor asked, softly.

The old man's liver-spotted, sickly yellow hand curved around his cane.

"Is 'misplaced' a better word?"

The cold displeasure Piett had felt flickered and died. Palpatine smiled.

"When we finished our audience with the queen, he expressed—rather emphatically—his concern about rebel sympathizers disrupting the parade and festival celebration. I allowed him to _confer_ with the Naboo Royal Chief of Security on the matter." He studied King Veruna with thinly-disguised contempt. "To do otherwise seemed like more of an exertion of energy than was worth it."

The Emperor's face turned from the carved, serene countenance of the King to the curiously empty space—a gap in the royal line statues that Piett had noticed, too.

"But he needn't have feared coming here, you see," he continued, quietly. "She's been moved."

Piett's eyes flicked down from the king to the polished plaque in front of the empty space. It was written in Naboo, the human population's traditional tongue, so he could not make it out. Slowly, his eyes traveled back up to the Emperor's face.

"Tell me, admiral...have you ever heard of Queen Padmé Amidala?"

"The..." He furrowed his brow, reaching back in his memories to his youth and the Clone Wars. "The name is familiar. There was a senator named Amidala, wasn't there?"

"One and the same. I would have been surprised if you'd never come across her, Admiral Piett." He glided over to the empty spot next to Veruna and stopped. "She should be here. Her statue has been moved—I would guess to a place of greater honor, given the...occasion."

"The—occasion...?"

"Today is the anniversary of the day she died." The Emperor's heavy robes brushed against the plaque. "Twenty-three years to the day."

Piett's eyes widened.

" _This_ was why the queen wore mourning garb—because of her predecessor's death?"

This former queen had died as the Empire was born.

"In all likelihood. Amidala was universally beloved of her people. If you'd only _known_ her—" He closed his eyes, savoring the memories of a bygone age. "There are individuals so _magnetic_ that around them galactic events can and must turn as a matter of course. She was such a one, admiral. More than once a two minute speech from her in the Senate of the Old Republic changed the tide of a galactic vote. It was quite remarkable to watch. No one in the Imperial Senate could hold a candle to her, I assure you."

Piett was not listening. He was thinking back to the Emperor's words when he had entered the room... _he needn't have feared._

"You wish to know what Lord Vader's interest in the late queen and senator is." Piett opened his mouth, alarmed and defensive. Palpatine silenced him with a look. "Do not be alarmed. You have a very open face, admiral. Can you guess?"

"I—" Another game that he had been drawn into without even realizing it. He had no choice but to play. "I find it difficult to imagine Lord Vader getting wrapped up in the cult of personality surrounding a politician."

Palpatine's chuckle was as brittle as his cane.

"Very astute. His loyalty is hard-won and always personal. And the senator's politics are unlikely to have held any allure for him—she was a staunch democratist."

 _Not a political match, then._

Which left one obvious but supremely unlikely alternative.

"His lover, then?" he said, boldly. He had never heard even the vaguest rumor of an assignation connected to Vader. For all his recent prominence on Imperial Center, he was still less a man in most sentients' eyes than a machine or tool. And even if they thought he was capable of sneaking off for a clandestine affair, no one on Imperial Center would have the nerve to voice the thought.

"A lover," the Emperor repeated, sneer creeping into his voice. "I wonder at you, Piett. If Lord Vader were here, would you have the gall to suggest something so repugnant to his sense of honor as a _kept mistress_? Not even his _esteem_ for you could survive that insult."

Piett shook his head.

"In truth, my lord, I feel I disgraced myself by even suggesting it."

"A man of personal as well as martial honor." Palpatine slowly walked towards the door. Piett followed. "You are a rare one, a _paragon_ of virtue."

"That is very flattering—"

"Or perhaps—" The hooded figured whirled on him. "You are merely better at hiding your vices than most of my officers."

The admiral flinched, but held the Emperor's piercing gaze with a steadiness far greater than what he felt.

"I find it difficult to imagine concealment from you would be possible, your majesty," Piett replied, evenly.

"That is usually true, yes. There have been a few...notable exceptions." He paused and considered the man, thoughtfully. "Do you know, admiral, of the very curious attachment customs of the Jedi Order?"

"I know next to nothing about the Jedi, my lord," Piett answered him, calmly. Something about this abrupt turn in subject rang out a warning call. "To me their religion and practices are completely opaque."

"Allow me, then, to elucidate you," Palpatine said, voice heavy with irony. "The Jedi did not allow their _practitioners_ to form attachments, Admiral Piett. They, as a general rule, took the infants who displayed—certain facilities—from their parents soon after birth and raised them in common. They were not permitted contact with their biological family, romantic ties, marriage... or children. Jedi were expected to always put the interests of the collective over their own: that tenet was the cornerstone on which their order was built, prospered...and eventually crumbled. What do you make of it?"

"It seems completely untenable," he said, after a moment. He was honest.

Palpatine broke into a wide smile.

"It was. But the Jedi did not realize the price they would pay for this particular dogma." Malice oozed from every word. "There was a boy, you see— _not_ taken from his mother at infancy, but discovered when he was nine, nearly _ten_ years old. He had been born in the Outer Rim, and so as a consequence this boy and his incredible natural Force-abilities had managed to go unnoticed—until, by chance, he crossed the path of a party that included a Jedi knight and the young Queen Amidala. The boy was so instantly enamored of her that when they met again, a decade later—he, now the most promising young Jedi in the history of the Order, and she an influential senator at the height of her beauty—they committed the greatest of all Jedi taboos and secretly _wed,_ right here on her home planet of Naboo."

"What—" Piett swallowed, hard. He found himself completely transfixed by the story. The story that no one but the Emperor knew, that none of them, least of all _him_ , could've guessed. "What ...price did the Jedi pay for this union?"

"Quite simply, admiral...they divided his loyalties," Palpatine said, mildly. "Divided loyalty— between a wife and an order—is not true loyalty to either. And so...it was very simple for another to step in and gain the boy's allegiance."

The implication festered for a long moment.

"Are there others who know that Lord Vader was once a Jedi?" Piett asked, quietly.

Palpatine didn't pretend to be surprised.

"A few, perhaps. Tarkin knew—but then, he had served with him during the Clone Wars. I find myself surprised more people don't assume it. I suppose they think they would have heard of him."

 _And they have. Just under a different name, as I thought._

He would not satisfy the Emperor any more than he already had by asking for it.

"His dedication to their extermination should have made it obvious," the Emperor continued, running one withered hand over the plaque. "Only someone who had been among their ranks could've hated the Jedi with his passion."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Palpatine paused for a fraction of a moment—no longer than the dead silence between heartbeats.

"It has been a long time since I have had a _confidante._ I see you understand Lord Vader better than most...I wished for you to understand the extreme delicacy and importance of the favor I am going to ask of you, admiral."

"Favor?"

"An errand. Simple enough—but also of personal significance. Will you oblige me?"

"You ask as if I had a choice."

The Emperor's eyes glittered with amusement.

"I assure you, you will not find it taxing," he chuckled, coldly. "Even Tychum could do this."

* * *

Piett no longer hid how little he enjoyed being alone in his Emperor's company; he barely moderated the pace of his steps to account for the elderly ruler's more tempered gait. They found Bratton and Tychum again quickly enough. The moff and governor were studying a collection of ancient Nubian pottery in the next room.

It did not take much to persuade the two men to leave the hall altogether, and Piett took great pleasure in allowing the eager and ambitious moff to take his place at the Emperor's side.

"Your majesty," Bratton smiled, as they walked down the long corridor and towards the room of sumptuous day refreshments that had been set out for them. "I trust your audience with the queen was fruitful."

"As fruitful as such things ever are, moff." He turned an amused smile to his companion, then back at Bratton. "My countrymen on Naboo have a particular habit of saying much, but very little of what they are really thinking."

Bratton quirked an eyebrow

"Surely the queen of Naboo wouldn't dare defy you." He looked over at Tychum, who was patting his forehead with a kerchief, nervously. "Or aren't you keeping the system in line?"

"There are rumors of unrest—and that's all they are," the governor said, defensively. " _Rumors_."

"On the subject of rumors...I have it on good authority, my friend, that you have heard a few interesting ones about the apparent gains of the rebellion against my Empire." Bratton jerked his head back in the direction of Palpatine, momentarily caught out. "I hope you aren't taking idle gossip to heart, Bratton."

Bratton didn't bat an eyelash—though Piett did notice a reflexive twitch in his cheek.

"I'm sure the reports of Lord Vader's success on Hoth and elsewhere are not exaggerated," he said, stonily.

Everything about his answer suggested he wished it wasn't true. Palpatine laughed.

"True, he _has_ been quite dogged in his pursuit of the rebels. There is a certain thrill in the chase that contributes to his tenacity, I believe. Admiral—" He set his sights on Piett. "You have been on the _Executor_ these past few months. Would you say Lord Vader's passion for his work lives up to the, ah— _legend_?"

"I have never seen him fail in his pursuit of an object."

"Really." Palpatine smiled absent-mindedly. " _Never_?"

Piett's chest tightened in anticipation of something—thought he could not be sure from what quarter it would come. The air around him had thickened.

"What an endorsement," Tychum added, timidly. Palpatine seemed less impressed.

"That reminds me, admiral—I've been meaning to ask you for some time, but it never seems to come up _naturally_ , " His eyes gleamed. "How goes the hunt for young Skywalker?

Piett's heartbeat sped up.

"Skywalker...?" Bratton repeated, baffled. "That would be..."

"The pilot who fired the shot that destroyed the Death Star," Piett finished for him, faintly.

"You're hunting him?" Bratton repeated, incredulous. Piett gave a weak nod. "A Super Star Destroyer going after one pilot? Surely there are _ISB agents_ who have been tasked with finding the rebel and making an example of him."

"Skywalker has managed to allude bounty hunters, private agents and the entire Imperial fleet for nearly three years," Piett pointed out, coolly. "He is no ordinary rebel."

"The boy seems to have a talent for slipping through Lord Vader's fingers," Palpatine remarked, blandly. "But then again, it has been so long since he had to take a prisoner alive. Perhaps he's simply out of practice."

Bratton chortled appropriately. Palpatine narrowed his eyes in Piett's direction.

"You are aware, admiral, that it was _I_ who ordered Vader dedicate his personal attention to capturing Skywalker, weren't you?"

The admiral, to his credit, didn't blink. Even if one didn't have the benefit of a mask, prolonged time spent in Lord Vader's presence encouraged the cultivation of a Sabaac face.

"Of course," Piett said, infusing the two syllables with just a _tinge_ of offense. "Your directive was relayed to the command crew, and Lord Vader's insistence that Skywalker be _immediately_ taken to Imperial Center was evidence enough of his importance."

"I am sure." He glanced over at Tychum. "Governor, you have been mumbling to yourself upwards of three minutes."

Tychum started.

"I apologize, my lord, I was—"

"Distracted, clearly," the Emperor completed the thought for him, as though he was a child. "I wonder what is so interesting to you about the name of the pilot, that you keep repeating it."

Tychum's face turned an ashen color.

"It's nothing, only—" The Emperor leaned forward. The governor was clearly unnerved by this genuine interest, so rarely bestowed on him. "I thought the name 'Skywalker' sounded familiar, and your conversation with Admiral Piett reminded me of where I'd—eh, heard it before."

Piett saw the Emperor's yellow eyes under the hood flash for split second. "Don't keep us in suspense."

Tychum glanced over at the moff, than at Piett, his growing trepidation obvious.

"Forgive me, my Emperor, I don't wish to offend—"

" _Nothing_ you could say would be capable of offending me, Governor Tychum, I assure you."

He was too relieved by the reassurance to be insulted by the implication.

"Well, I believe—that is to say...was there not a very prominent..." He pursed his lips anxiously. "—erm, _Jedi_ by the name of 'Skywalker'?"

All eyes turned to the Emperor. His face was frozen in its usual imperturbable mask, but Piett could have sworn he sensed the wheels behind those eyes turning.

"I understand your hesitation, governor," he said, after a moment. "You wished to spare my feelings on a—delicate matter."

Even Bratton seemed uncomfortable.

"My lord, I meant no disrespect—"

"And you offered none. It is not a crime to remember a famous Jedi," He smiled, and when he did the normally placid face took on a feral quality. "The Skywalker in question was the subject of a very public holo campaign during the war. You spent much of your youth on Coruscant, Tychum. It is only natural you would...make a connection."

He looked past him—towards Piett.

" _If_ there's a connection to be made between this dead Jedi and pilot," Bratton interjected. "But I don't suppose there is."

"It's not a very common name," Tychum reasoned. "Perhaps...a cousin? Or—"

" _A son."_

Both men turned in Piett's direction.

"A son," he repeated, in a strangled whisper, and when he turned his eyes to meet the Emperor's, the elderly monarch inclined his head just a fraction.

"A very interesting idea," Palpatine said, softly. "A son."

"Are you alright, Admiral?" Tychum asked, frowning. "You look ill."

Piett looked down at his hands. They were shaking.

"A _son_?" Bratton scoffed. "Really, Firmus, you don't know much about the Jedi if you think that's possible. They were all eunuchs, weren't they? That's what I was always told."

"If there's one thing I've learned in my career, Moff Bratton," The Emperor said, eyes still fixed on the Admiral. "It's that there are _exceptions_ to every rule."

Piett felt calm—more calm than he had any right to, in the circumstances. He seemed to have lost most of his faculties, and he let Tychum steer him to the couch without resistance. For the second time on this trip he was grateful for the poor, foolish governor, whose womanish fussing felt like the only real event happening in the room.

"You almost seem as though you've suffered a great shock, Admiral," Palpatine said, clicking his tongue with concern. "Are you feeling well?"

"Of course, your majesty," he said, looking back down at his hands. He clenched them, experimentally, to see if the shaking would stop. It did. "I've never felt more clear-headed in my life."

"Then you won't mind fetching Lord Vader for me." Palpatine's voice turned cold, and his face hardened. "He has spent enough time going over security protocols. I want him at my side when I am addressing Naboo. All the planet will see my strong right arm— _that_ is how I wish it to be."

Gently, the admiral pushed off Tychum hand and stood up, shakily.

"It will be done as you wish," Piett said.

* * *

Piett had never wanted to leave the presence of an individual—to leave a planet—as much as he did the Emperor and Naboo now. He wandered up and down the endless hallway of the palace, scarcely knowing where he was going. Vader wasn't picking up his comm, and there were over a hundred rooms where he might be. The Admiral welcomed these outrageous odds of finding his commander.

His _son._

Luke Skywalker was Darth Vader's _son._

It made all the sense in the world and yet—left far more questions than answers. The elaborate lengths to which Vader had gone to entrap the boy on Bespin...the secret order he had given to Piett to let him go above Florrum...and most significantly, the Emperor's particular interest.

 _He must have inherited Lord Vader's abilities._

It explained his success over Yavin—Piett had seen the readout of the statistical odds of a sentient making that shot, and it had been staggeringly low. And those numbers hadn't even factored Lord Vader into the scenario.

 _Like father, like son._

He pulled his old-fashioned watch out of the breast pocket of his uniform. Piett had just enough time to complete the Emperor's errand (at least he could do that quickly, with what he had learned he didn't relish being caught in that place by Vader) and rendezvous with his erstwhile commander, if the aide he'd sent managed to track him down. He didn't have the time to seriously consider the implication of what he'd learned—

Abruptly, his personal comm emitted a loud and unfamiliar shrieking noise.

 _What in all the_ hells _is going on_ now—

"This is Admiral Piett of the SSD _Executor,"_ he answered, fumbling with the switch. "Who is on this signal transmission? Identify yourself."

" _Nice to meet you, Admiral. I've heard good things. Who I am doesn't matter—I'm looking for Vader. Is he with you?"_

The voice on the other end of the communication channel was female, young—and the brash familiarity she spoke with was suggestive of the common underworld criminals he knew Vader employed and who he thoroughly disapproved of.

Piett sat down on a settee in the empty hall and let out a world-weary sigh.

"Whoever you are, you _must_ know that I can't possibly reveal that information to a contact who won't even identify themselves."

" _I work for him."_

"In what capacity?" he asked, in a tight voice. "Forgive me, I don't think even the most _lax_ Imperial would have so little respect for basic courtesy or protocol—"

" _I don't have time for this!"_ the woman snapped, losing the brightness in her voice. " _Frankly, neither do you. Or Lord Vader. And you can cut the rank-and-file routine, Admiral Oblivious, because I do know how a Star Destroyer works, and Luke Skywalker didn't make it past the Empire's biggest ship off of Florrum without inside help."_

Piett paled.

"Has something—happened to the boy?"

" _Nothing—yet."_ Her crackling pause was one of the longest moments of Piett's life." _He's on Naboo."_

Piett groaned and massaged his temples.

" _So I'm guessing from that dignified noise that you get the problem here?"_

"What in the _devil_ possessed him?"

" _It's a family...matter."_ She sounded put-out. " _Look, the point is Vader isn't going to be pleased —"_

"—When he learns his _son_ is here?" Piett finished for her, wearily.

" _You...know about that?"_

He dug through his pocket for a painkiller to combat the headache that was already brewing.

"Obviously."

" _How?"_

"I _inferred_ it."

" _Based on—?"_

"The Emperor all but told me, if you must know," Piett admitted, popping back the pill and slumping in his seat.

" _Do you usually discuss Lord Vader's personal history with the Emperor?_ "

"Lately I haven't had much of a choice," he replied, curtly. "I don't intend on making a habit of it, believe me. I assume you have a plan to rectify this situation."

" _You catch on quick,"_ she said, appreciative. " _I do. I'm sending someone to retrieve him discreetly._ "

"Trustworthy?"  
"

 _Yes—well, she has the kid's best interest at heart, anyway."_ Another pause. " _I need you to meet her and do the hand-off."_

"Why _me_?"

" _I may...not have mentioned Vader to her. I don't think she'd take it well if she knew who my boss really was."_

"Who—"

" _It's Leia Organa."_

He cursed under his breath and fumbled in his pocket for another painkiller.

"Any other _abominable_ news you wish to convey to me?" he asked, acidly. His late mother had often remarked that sarcasm was beneath him. All due respect to mama, but right now he didn't give a damn.

" _I need you to tell the happy father the good news."_

He was tempted to throw the comm against the wall like a child.

"Why? What _possible_ benefit could there be to _that_?"

" _He and Luke have some—ability to sense each other. It's a Force thing_. _He'll be able to find the kid quicker than you or I could...and it'll be worse if we try to hide it and he figures it out._ "

"If Lord Vader believes either of us knew Skywalker was in danger and concealed it from him..." He trailed off.

The crackling silence on the other end of the comm was telling.

" _Have you ever wondered what being shot into the vacuum of space would feel like, admiral?"_

Piett reached for his throat and tugged at his collar.

"I can guess."

* * *

As Vader looked out the expansive window of the palace's throne room and onto the square below—already filling with crowds, Naboo carefully selected from the population for their tractability—he wondered what he'd been thinking. It had been a flimsy excuse that his master had seen through, and he had still ended up _here_.

His efforts up until now to avoid it had been childish and cowardly—but most of all, pointless.

There was not a place he could go on this planet that was not suffused with memories of _her..._ and whatever he told himself, he would not have it any other way.

Naboo would always be _hers._

"Lord Vader," a soft voice called from somewhere behind him. "Captain Deeko told me you wished to speak to me.

"I do," he rumbled, still staring down at the mass of people below.

"He said you questioned whether our security was up to the task of protecting the Emperor."

He turned his head slightly in the direction of the young queen.

" _Excuse me—_ I'm _in charge of security, milady."_

"I have no doubt you are capable of protecting the Emperor, your majesty," he replied, brushing away the memory.

"Then you doubt our resolve to."

He turned to face the queen, dressed in somber purple and black and the customary white face paint which so effectively concealed what she—poor, scared thing, for in spite of her boldness he could feel the fear rolling of her—truly was. Vader looked away again.

Padmé had never feared him. She had only ever feared _for_ him.

"You have given me no reason to."

Her youthful face softened.

"Then I must ask, Lord Vader—why do you remain here?"

"I..." He turned his whole frame back towards the window. "I have a request. It is of a...sensitive nature."

He felt the girl's eyes staring at his back. She had more perceptive ability than his master gave her credit for.

"The grave is not open to the public, Lord Vader—but you may visit it whenever you wish."

"...Did the Emperor speak to you?" Vader asked, softly.

"No. Queen Rodanthe, my predecessor—" There was a hint of sad humor in her voice. "She warned me you would ask, and that I must choose for myself what my answer is to be."

"You could not stop me," he said, in a low voice, putting one hand on the glass. It was not transparasteel, only flimsy seaglass. If the rebel sympathizers he pretended to believe were below the palace _had_ been there, how easy for them to launch a grenade in his direction, snuff him out, once and for all.

"She also told me you never go, even after you've been granted permission." He heard the light, hesitant step of the young monarch.. "I...am too young to have met Queen Amidala—but I am told by they that knew her well...that no one ever had any cause to fear facing her."

The dark silhouette at the window did not turn.

Only the sharp sound of a door being closed broke the silence.

"Your majesty—" The imperial captain bowed, curtly. "Lord Vader—my lord, the Emperor demands you join him on the viewing platform for the address."

"The address was not scheduled for another two hours, captain," Vader said, icily, spinning on his heel.

The captain nervously shifted his weight but did not waver.

"There was a last minute change. Emperor Palpatine now wishes to speak to the people immediately."

"Where is Admiral Piett?" he asked, striding from the window past the queen as though she were nothing. The captain snapped another salute at his commander.

"The Admiral—was detained on some urgent business—"

"What urgent business?" Vader demanded, cooly. "Why did he not come himself?"

"I—I don't know, my lord. I was told he was with the Emperor until a short time ago but that he— left, quickly. He wishes to rendezvous with you at the shuttle hangar, there was some— information he wanted to relay to you in person—"

"Why was I not informed of the schedule being moved up before now?" Vader interrupted. The envoy looked embarrassed.

"My lord...no one was able to _find_ you, and you...weren't answering your comm."

There was a long pause.

"Thank you for your time, your majesty." Vader said, stiffly. "I shall consider all you said with due _reverence_."

"Of course, Lord Vader." As the Sith stalked out of the room, captain scuttling uncertainly behind him, she realized that never once had he pointed his helmet squarely towards her. Never once had he looked at her. "And I will not stop you, whatever you decide."

* * *

By the time Piett strode through the door of the Theed Palace hangar bay, Vader was in the worst of all possible moods.

"You," he rumbled. "Are _late_ , admiral."

"My lord—" Piett stopped to breathe. "I apologize—"

"Save your excuses for the Emperor," Vader snapped, stalking over to the two-man speeder waiting for them. "It is _he_ you answer to now, not me."

He signaled to his personal garrison of stormtroopers to follow. Piett held up his hand—the men stopped, confused. They had never seen Piett countermand a direct order of Vader's.

"Lord Vader—something has happened."

Vader signaled again—his troops separated into four groups and dispersed among the speeders on the other end of the hangar, leaving him and Piett in relative privacy.

"We are already beset with fawning and grasping politicians." Vader said, irritably. "What _else_ could there be that needs my attention?"

Vader started the engine the moment Piett climbed, rather clumsily, into the seat next to him. Immediately Vader sped off, going from 0 to his customary 20 kilometers over the speed limit with a carelessness that spoke to his displeasure.

"It is being...attended to," the Admiral said, slowly, trying to pull himself up in his seat. "I merely felt it necessary that you were—informed."

"You are unusually cryptic."

"A matter of security and discretion, my lord." He swallowed and took a deep breath. "It concerns our recent activities on...Florrum."

Vader pulled up on the breaks so hard that Piett nearly flew out of his seat.

"What _about_ Florrum?" he asked, in his lowest, most dangerous voice.

"The boy—Lord Vader—" Piett gulped in a breath of air to steady himself. " _He's here_."

With no warning he swung them into and across three lanes of incoming traffic, through a busy intersection, a layer of bushes and into what could be most generously described as an irrigation ditch on the side of the ornamental river that hugged the main promenade of Theed.

Piett sputtered and pulled errant leaves out of his hair—but the sight of Vader slowly turning in his seat froze him.

"If you want to live you will speak _quickly_."

"I received an encrypted communication from a woman claiming to be your agent a half-hour ago," he said, stumbling over the words. "She gave me specific information—the forged ship ID tags, which I cross-checked with planetary security. It seems he...landed on the planet four standard hours ago."

"On Naboo." Vader repeated, with a surprising lack of emotion.

"All intelligence points to him being...in Theed." Piett plunged forward before Vader could speak again. "The news of the Imperial Day celebration being moved here was not released on the holonet until yesterday. He came here ignorant of our presence."

"Why did he come here _at all_?"

Piett looked at him with an emotion that Vader had never seen cross his face—concern? Or was it pity?

"Your—agent seemed to think he was here on...family business," he replied, delicately.

Vader's grip on the controls tightened. For a moment Piett thought he was going to snap the metal-plated rods in two.

His anger—laced, as all he felt was, with _fear—_ caught up with Piett's words at last. In the Force he reached out and—there, he could feel it, the true source of his anxiety these past few days—

 _Luke._

His son, his absurd, impetuous _child,_ the boy who had inherited his mother's tendency to put himself in harm's way with no thought for the consequences. Luke's presence was faint, nearly obscured—but it was here. He'd been on the planet for almost the exact amount of time Vader had, he'd probably only arrived an hour before—and he'd had _no idea_.

Right now the fact that Luke had been able to hide from him was less comforting than infuriating.

He'd been far too wrapped in his own self-loathing to realize what should have been obvious.

Without warning, the Sith pulled the speeder back into traffic. With no concern for his hapless admiral, Vader pushed fully on the throttle.

"Did Aphra give you anything of _use_ , Piett?" he demanded, turning so sharply around the corner of the Naboo Opera house that he clipped the wings of one of its angelic statues. "Or just her _pathetic_ excuses?"

"She is sending an agent to come retrieve him—"

"Clever. She knows her life would be forfeit—" He jerked the ship over a service freighter, then plunged it below the line of speeders in a move that would have gotten anyone else blown to smithereens. Piett turned green. "—If she came herself."

He let out a low hiss, which through his vocoder sounded more like a growl. She might die yet from this, especially if her agent proved as useless at containing the boy as she had. The doctor had stuck her nose into his affairs one too many times.

If Luke had found out about his...connection...to this planet, it had been _her_ doing, he was sure of it. Maddeningly, the rage he should have felt at her interference, the anger that under any other circumstance lent him clarity, was drowned out by his fear.

Terror.

His Master must've known. He had foreseen the importance of bringing Empire Day to Naboo... it was all for _this_. The Emperor had tired of Vader's continual excuses and failure and moved to ensnare Luke himself. If Vader did not locate his son and move him off planet soon...

He had avoided considering the consequences of Sidious taking Luke up until now. The boy was at least employing shielding, but Vader feared reaching out to him, lest Palpatine sense it. For once he did not want to help the wily old Sith catch his prey.

That left him to deduce where Luke was _without_ the Force. He slammed his fist against the dashboard in frustration (Piett jumped) leaving a half-meter wide dent in the metal. He needed to find his son quickly, and everything in the universe seemed to be set up

Naboo—Luke had come to _Naboo_ —of all the foolish, headstrong, irrational things to do. Even if he and the Emperor weren't here, it would've been a dangerous. What could possibly be worth the dangers and risk in the middle of the war, after he had explicitly told the boy to lay low—

Why _today_?

Then he remembered what Piett had said, and for the second time in less than three minutes the obvious smacked him across the face.

 _Of course today._

"Admiral Piett—" His attention snapped back to the speeder. "In approximately a minute we will reach a promenade from which you can walk to the Emperor."

"From which _I—_?"

"I know where Luke is," Vader angled the ship in for a tight landing. "You will contact me when you have safe transport off-world for him. We will rendezvous from there. Keep your comm open at all times."

"But—Lord Vader—" Piett's green face turned ashen. "The address... _you_ are expected. What am I to tell them? What am I tell the _Emperor_?"

"Remember that he hates weakness," Vader said, and the door at Piett's left popped open of its own accord two meters above the concrete landing platform. "You are resourceful. I am sure a solution will present itself."

An unseen force promptly shoved Piett onto the hard cement. He got to his feet, shakily—just in time to see Vader's speeder race away.

" _Damn!_ "

* * *

As Piett jogged down the steps of Victory Square, each footfall became progressively slower and heavier. The sight of an incensed Moff marching towards him nearly had the admiral turning back around and fleeing, damn the consequences.

"Where have you _been_?" Bratton hissed at him as he hit ground level. "Palpatine says he will not begin the address without him. We've already been waiting forty minutes—"

"Don't lecture me about the time, Anton—" he snapped, patience strained at last. "I run a bloody _Super Star Destroyer_. I daresay I know more about it than you do."

Shocked at his bluntness, Bratton did a double-take. Tychum hurried over to them, relief plastered over his pasty face, and so the moff was left with no chance for a rejoinder.

"Firmus— _stars_ , I'm so glad you're here. I seem to have—erm, run out of ways to amuse his majesty."

"Is that your assessment or his, Tychum?" Piett sighed, rubbing his temples again.

"Both, I'd imagine," a soft voice interjected. A now familiar shiver ran up Piett's spine, and he dropped his hands to his side. "I was relying on your wit to save us both, admiral."

Piett slowly turned around and faced the Emperor.

"Your majesty, I—" He stopped himself. _What the Emperor hates most all is weakness._ "—did not believe my presence would be missed."

Palpatine's eyes raked over the Sith-sized gaping absence at Piett's left.

"Didn't you?" he said, and the words came out as a low, sibilant hiss.

Tychum looked over Piett's shoulder, curious, as though the slight man would have been able to physically conceal his superior.

"Where _is_ Lord Vader, Firmus?" Tychum asked, now turning this other way, thinking he had missed him somehow.

"Yes, Piett—we don't have all day."

The Admiral looked between his two fellows—who were both staring at him in expectation—and then at the Emperor, who watched him with a, not like a predator studying a rodent too small to be worth eating.

That look strengthened his resolve.

And in a flash, just as Vader had said—a solution presented itself.

Reckless and potentially lethal—but if it _worked_...

"I fail to understand the problem, your majesty." He fixed his face into an expression of polite puzzlement. "When Lord Vader is only following your orders."

" _My_ orders, admiral?" the Emperor repeated, with affected disbelief. "Pray, tell us what you mean."

Now Piett allowed his brow to furrow with annoyance.

"I found Lord Vader after he finished debriefing the security task force. When I offhandedly mentioned that I had to leave him to complete an errand for you, my lord, he said—" He whetted his lips with appropriate pomp. "That he knew of it and felt better _equipped_ to handle the task personally."

Palpatine's eyes widened with genuine—the most genuine Piett had ever seen—surprise. Just as quickly they narrowed into snakelike slits, and the admiral had to suppress his natural urge to take a step backwards.

"And you took Lord Vader at his word," said the Emperor, in a low voice.

"Frankly, my lord, I thought it a bit absurd, but _you_ know he can be—insistent about such things," he continued, casually, throwing in a small _tch_ in the back of the throat for good measure. "It was the shuttle all over again, him insisting on going himself, but as he knew what needed to be done, I _naturally_ assumed—"

" _Assumptions_ are as dangerous as hesitations to me, Admiral Piett."

Piett looked the Emperor square in the eye.

"I knew that Lord Vader would never dare countermand your wishes, Emperor Palpatine," he replied, calmly. "And so it followed in my mind that he was where you ordered him. I can think of no one who understands your wishes better."

"What are you saying, Piett?" Bratton asked, eyebrow raised. "That the Emperor's orders are a matter of _interpretation_ for you and Vader?"

"Anton!" Tychum said, face coloring. "That is quite the accusation."

"You mistake the point, Bratton," the Emperor said, and the glimmer in his eyes that the admiral recognized as a sign that Palpatine's mind was at work returned. "Piett suggests that his commander can read my designs as no one else can."

He smiled toothily, in dark amusement—truly, Piett saw genuine delight there.

"And the admiral is quite right," he looked over at Piett and nodded approvingly. "I can see you've taken what you learned to heart."

"I hope so, my lord."

Palpatine chuckled and put one hand on Piett's shoulder—by all appearances a light, familiar gesture. The admiral instantly felt as though his blood temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees.

"He is at the palace, then?" the Emperor murmured, quietly. "Yes."

"... _Alone_?"

"I—couldn't say."

"No—of course not. He is _never_ alone." He stepped back and let go of Piett's shoulder. The cold lingered. "You have made more than one friend today, Piett. Bratton will not soon forget the honor you have unwittingly thrust upon him."

"Emperor Palpatine, I don't—"

"Moff Bratton," Palpatine said, only a decibel louder, but like a loyal pet his courtier was instantly at his side. "I have need of you."

"Whatever you—"

"You will read the Empire Day remarks in my stead."

The order was so absurd that it rendered even Bratton temporarily dumbstruck. The Emperor gestured, and one of his distant aides came to his side, holding the data pad that presumably contained his speech—though _why_ he would have it on hand, when it was common knowledge he never _read_ remarks—was less obvious. The wild thought that he might have foreseen these events flashed through Piett's mind as the aide handed it to the flabbergasted moff.

"Tychum will assist you in rehearsing the words. You have a talent for such things, after all."

"Where will you be, your majesty?" Piett asked, his face pale, as he watched Palpatine ascend the steps of the square, newfound purpose in every step.

"I, admiral? I must pay a call—it cannot wait. I have begun to feel sympathy for Lord Vader's position on the matter."

He turned at the top of the stairs and looked down. He didn't rely on the cane.

Piett wondered if he ever had.

"One should never leave important tasks to _anyone else_."

 **Thank you so much for the continued support for this project. Sorry about the long, long tease.**


	4. Chapter 4

Funerals on Tatooine were like most everything else on the desert world—functional, dry and colorless. Fast, too—Luke had been to more than a few growing up. The planet was merciless in the dry season, necessitating shallow graves for bodies that had to be disposed of with a haste bordering on harried. People were a lot more worried about scavenging animals than the feelings of the bereaved.

There was nothing _romantic_ about death on Tatooine.

Leia had once told him an Alderaanian folktale about a princess who was jilted by a man and died for love of him. She had laughed at it, joked that people on Alderaan could make anything romantic, but he hadn't. Aunt Beru had always told him death and pain went hand in hand—and now, three and a half years since he'd lost her, he knew how true that was.

As he looked around his mother's mausoleum, Luke began to understand why someone might think there was some poetry in death.

It was beautiful. Blue and green must've been Padmé's favorite colors—or maybe they were Naboo's favorites, and the whole planet had seen fit to wrap their beloved queen's final resting place in a cool, lush blanket.

There was a statue of her at the entrance, and though its features were very much like the woman who he had seen in the official holos, there was a solemnity, a coldness to the marble woman Luke didn't like.

He preferred the stained glass portrait above her tomb.

 _That_ Padmé wore a blue gown, comparatively simple. Her bare face smiled down at him, and though it was just pieces of seaglass that had been cleverly sewn together to look like her, Luke could imagine that the natural kindness the artist had captured was meant for him alone.

He blinked hard and looked down at the sandstone, carved with the insignia of the Royal House of Naboo. He felt her _absence_ here more keenly than he felt her presence.

"Hello, mother," Luke said, laying one hand on the cool stone. "I've...been away for a long time. I'm sorry I never got the chance to say..."

 _Anything._

He'd never known her, never exchanged a single word with her. He was suddenly struck by the injustice of it, that he had to sneak onto an occupied planet in the middle of a _war_ just to...to...

Luke whirled around.

 _Wait a minute._

There was a distant sound—footsteps, heavy, purposeful—quick but not hurried—a distinctly military gait, but more than that...it was a familiar feeling...the connection in the Force he had felt with only _one_ other person—

The sharp steps stopped.

Vader's gigantic black frame engulfed the entire entrance to Amidala's mausoleum...but Luke thought his father had never seemed smaller. He teetered on the threshold, showing an odd hesitation, and when his helmet turned upwards towards the glass likeness, Luke saw the reflection of her face in the polished eyescopes.

 _Together again,_ he thought, and his heart hurt, even if he was, for the first time in his life, glad to see the figure standing before him.

"You came."

The two words startled Vader out of his trance, and he took his first halting step into the room and towards his son.

" _What_ ," The connection between them flared in the Force—instantly Luke was bowled over by the force of his father's anger. "Are you _doing here_?"

"I...I thought..." His shoulders tensed at the spike of rage directed...was it directed at _him_?

"Why did you come here?" Vader thundered, his bass voice seething. "What were you _thinking_?"

"Why do you _think_?" Luke asked, a boiling, defensive anger reflexively rose in him. "I needed answers— and you wouldn't give them to me—"

"You know _nothing_ , young one," Vader reprimanded, coldly.

"If this is all you have to say, why did you even bother to come?" he shot back, and the way Vader stalked towards him—so angry, so much like that dark force of nature on Bespin—gave him the urge to pull his blaster.

On the heels of the thought came an immediate wave of shame. This was his mother's final resting place, and he was—they were _both_ —

"You have to leave. Immediately."

"But I just—"

"This is not a _discussion_ ," Vader snapped, his heavy baritone echoing through the chamber. "You do not understand the danger you are in, Luke."

"Danger?" The boy's face fell. "What dan—"

He choked, not finishing the word. In the time it took to breath once the air had thinned somehow—he felt...like he couldn't breathe.

It was as it had been in the restless dreams that woke him up, the ones where he saw the world all in red— where everything slowly closed around him, stifled him.

"What _is_ that?"

Luke clutched at his arms—they were shaking from a cold that wasn't real—for if it was, he would be

seeing his breath right now, like he had in Echo Base. The hairs on the back of his hands stood on end. "I feel—that's—"

Vader sharply turned towards the door.

"Silence."

With a swiftness that impressed and struck fear, Vader was up on the platform. He grabbed Luke's arm in a viselike trip, and before the boy could think to struggle, dragged him down the steps and towards some pillars on the opposite side of the tomb.

"What are you—"

Luke watched in amazement as his father kneeled down on the floor and pressed a concealed release panel—the door to a hidden compartment in the pillar popped open. It was just big enough for a slight human.

"Get inside. Do not speak, do not _breathe_. _Don't use the Force_."

Another wave of iciness rolled over Luke's skin and he climbed awkwardly in.

His father slammed the door shut behind him, and Luke found himself in a hollowed out chamber. He looked up—there was light peaking in from the top, he realized, with a start, that the column was freestanding.

He could hear his father's breathing more clearly from in here—it amplified the sounds of the room.

And still it grew colder.

Vader tilted his helmet up towards the glass mural of Padmé Amidala again. The queen smiled down at him, as she did all her visitors. The sun shone through the image, giving her the luminescence she had always had for him in life.

He rested one gloved hand on her grave. For the first time in over two decades, Vader regretted the loss of human feeling—of skin. He was as close to her as he could be, and even the sensation of cold stone was dulled.

Then he remembered the very real son hidden meters from him. Slow steps, punctuated by a sharp rap on the marble floor.

The black hand on her tomb balled into a fist.

"Ah, my friend—I _thought_ I would find you here."

Slowly, Vader turned from the image of his wife and towards his master, Darth Sidious. The Emperor did not hesitate at the threshold of the tomb, as Vader had, but crossed over it and stopped in front of the statue of Queen Amidala, for a moment tracing the likeness with a critical eye before glancing back at Vader again.

"Master." On reflex, Vader moved towards the steps, but Palpatine raised one hand, sharply.

"Don't trouble yourself, my friend."

As the Emperor slowly climbed the steps, Vader's shoulders seized uncomfortable.

When he met his master's gaze, at last, he was not capable of making it out.

Palpatine studied him—they stood, master and apprentice, eye-to-eye—until the Emperor's slid past him and onto the smooth, stone crypt.

"It was such a simple task." He smiled and shook his head.

Then, to Vader's surprise, his master passed him and walked towards Padmé's final resting place. Vader turned and watched, transfixed, as he reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out—

A single, long-stemmed flower.

The ruler of all known space laid it on her tomb with a reverence that seemed to his apprentice, against all odds—genuine.

Palpatine looked up at the stained-glass depiction of his one-time political protege. Vader watched the weathered face in profile, masked in shadows, searching, against all odds, for some explanation.

As had so often been the case, the answer alluded him.

"What about the address at Victory Square?" asked Vader, breaking the silence.

"The Naboo have been spared my presence for a little longer. So much the better for them—" He paused, still focused intently on the image of the woman. "They desire it even less than you do."

Vader said nothing.

"I sometimes forget how beautiful she was," said Palpatine, suddenly. He looked sideways at his

apprentice. "But I doubt _you_ ever have." _This_ was an overstep.

"Why are you here?" Vader replied, bluntly. If his rudeness disturbed the Emperor—no one, least of all his apprentice, would have been able to tell.

"I followed you, Lord Vader. Perhaps a better question is—" He closed his eyes, in a mockery of cool indifference. "Why are _you_ here?"

" _I_ did not move Empire Day to Naboo," Vader shot back. The frustration and pent up anger of the past weeks bubbled and churned, rising to the surface without warning. " _You_ brought us to this planet. Why?"

"A true Sith never asks a question he does not already know the answer to," the Emperor replied, patiently.

" _I_ have never pretended to understand your machinations," Vader replied, stonily.

Palpatine opened his eyes and laughed, coldly.

"Spare me your _protestations of innocence_. You aren't the guileless little boy who used to sit in my office in the senate building—not anymore," the Emperor said, eyes narrowing, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. "You are far more cunning than you give yourself credit for."

"All I know I learned from you," Vader bit back, sarcastically.

"That is not an answer, Vader," Palpatine said, bluntly. "Why do _you_ think we are here, my apprentice? You must have a theory."

Vader clenched and relaxed his fists again.

"You are trying to goad me," he said, slowly. "Into revealing something."

"Is that a guess or an observation?"

"Both," he snapped, on reflex. "You...have been relentless. All along you have been—"

Vader choked on his own words, his regulated breathing punctuated by an extra breath.

Palpatine's eyes burned.

"Go on," he ordered, softly.

"... _Toying_ with me."

Vader felt a heady, freeing rush at the words—as though one of the many burdens he bore had been lifted from his shoulders.

Terror at such an admission being out in the open rushed in to fill the vacuum. Palpatine tilted his head and considered.

"And you believe such crude tactics are beneath me," his master observed, thoughtfully. "Perhaps you are right. But you have forced my hand, Lord Vader. There was once a time I would not have needed such theatrics to gain your confidence."

"There is _nothing_ about me you do not know," Vader replied, his fierceness tinged with unmistakable bitterness.

"You're angry," Palpatine said, nearly placid. Vader bristled.

"Would you have me any other way?" Vader asked. "Anger gives me strength—"

"Self-righteous fury cannot sustain a Sith Lord," his master interrupted, still maddeningly calm. "Nor can simmering resentment. Such pettiness is beneath _you,_ my friend."

Vader said nothing. After a single, pregnant pause, his master continued.

"I have felt your hatred these past three years grow, despite your attempts to conceal its object from me." Palpatine flashed him a knowing look. "It would seem I have usurped Obi-Wan Kenobi at last. Ought I to be flattered?"

Vader froze.

"Deceit and treachery are the ways of the Sith, master," he said, fighting the impulse to stare, enraptured, to cow, to kneel.

"But they are not _your_ ways. And did you not once say that _we_ are not like the others?"

"I was...mistaken."

"Were you?" Palpatine asked, gravely. He let the implication dangle, tantalizing—a younger Vader might've risen to the bait, the young Anakin Skywalker most _certainly_ would have.

"What is it you want?" asked Vader, finally.

He was tired—tired of fighting. He had long since given up hope of being able to play this game with any success.

"Quite simply—" His master's eyes glittered. "I wish to know what I have done to _earn_ such anger."

 _That_ was too much for Vader to bear.

" _You know_ ," he said, clenching his clenching his fists so tightly that his son—hidden meters away, could hear it. "You _know_ —"

"You assume an omnipotence even I do not possess, Lord Vader."

 _Liar_. He knew _exactly—_ for him to pretend, in _this_ place of all places—

 _He wants you to admit it._

But even _that_ glimmer of self-awareness could not stem to force of three years of suppressed anger—not when he had all but an invitation to release it—

"You lied! You lied to me about—" His rage rendered him nearly inarticulate—the walls and floor shook with the force of his narrowly focused anger, and the man who welcomed it with the clinical detachment of a scientist studying a specimen in a zoo. Silently, the Emperor raised what should have been his right eyebrow—as if he was mildly intrigued by the sputtering rage of his servant, the anger that would have made anyone else in the galaxy quake in fear. "You made me think that I...but I didn't. She lived. She _lived!"_

 _Longer than you believed, perhaps—but not much longer. It makes no difference._

 _You failed either way._

He had forgotten that Luke was here, hidden away—he turned towards the door, struck by his urge to leave this place—oppressive, stifling, the walls of sea and lush green that threatened to swallow him whole.

"Wait, my friend—don't go."

Vader stopped—he hadn't even realized he had been acting on his impulse, was nearly at the _door_. The words stopped him where he stood, grounded him, as solidly as the statue of his wife, whose eyes were now _fixed_ on his retreating back.

But it wasn't the words. It was the tone in which they were said—mild, calm—soothing, and when Vader turned back towards his master, the mournful smile he found there fixed him surer than any order could have.

"I didn't come here to berate you," he said, with a coaxing gentleness that he was long out of the habit of using—one that had once put a small boy as ease. "I understand."

" _No one_ can understand," Vader said, and the words sounded painfully young to his own ears. Long ago he had convinced himself he was impervious to the self-consciousness of his former life, his body ravaged and the armor he wore a shield against the prying eyes of the galaxy. Now he saw the past followed him around like a specter.

No one could see that more clearly than his master now.

There _was_ someone else, the Force reminded him, faintly, but he couldn't remember in this moment who it was.

He obeyed the wordless command, as if magnetically pulled, and followed his master back up the stairs of the mausoleum.

Palpatine placed his hand on the stone.

"You think _I_ deceived you," the Emperor said, breaking the silence between them. Vader would not give his master the satisfaction of asking the question.

The old man's face slipped into a mask of polite puzzlement.

"This is a heavy charge. On what grounds do you lay it?" His mild voice turned cold again. "What possible motive could I have in lying to you these twenty years? What have _I_ gained by having an apprentice riddled with _guilt_? It is not of the dark side. It is not of the _Sith._ "

The Emperor's indictment of him clear, Vader roiled, defensively, turning on his heel to face his master. "I _am_ a Sith—"

"—A true Sith would not have allowed himself to be so steered by his emotions," the Emperor interrupted, softly—but the tightly controlled power beneath the words stopped Vader as surely as snapping would have. "You are a paradox, Lord Vader. Hopelessly predictable where—" He gestured at the stern and queenly visage of the stone Amidala. "— _Certain_ matters are concerned—and yet..." He trailed off thoughtfully, considering his apprentice. "You are still capable of surprising me."

Palpatine studied him, appraising him with the thoughtful air of a mentor sizing up a once-favored protégé.

 _He knew._

He knew that Vader had concealed Luke's existence, had begun acting, plotting against him—and though the inevitability of this moment had been hurtling towards him for some time—he had expected more anger when it came.

Certainly not the amusement dancing behind the old man's yellowed eyes.

"Have...I not lived up to your expectations, master?" he asked, wearily.

Palpatine's eyes widened in surprise. He cocked his head and considered the question for a long moment.

"I was not wrong in choosing you," he said, at last. "You truly _are_ worthy of the name I gave you, Lord Vader. Never forget that."

The Emperor walked down the steps again and crossed to the carved figure of his political protege. He touched her face, and though Luke, frozen in his hiding spot, could not see the action, he felt the room grow even colder.

"So beautiful," Sidious repeated, closing his eyes. "A waste. We were both deceived, my friend." Vader caught a whiff of genuine regret from his master. "I was reminded of her today when we stood in the throne room. I often wonder..." He chucked the statue's chin, as though it was a little girl. "—What she would think of our _little venture_."

"What do you mean?"

"The Empire, Lord Vader," the master said, slowly turning around. "The Empire that I could not have molded without you."

Vader felt the full weight of his master's scrutiny.

"She would hate it."

The force of his own words weighed down on him more heavily than Sidious's judgement. Vader had known in his heart since her death that it was true, but to say it out loud meant facing something far worse —what he could feel through the veil of the dark side that surrounded him.

He had not done what he had done for her.

Palpatine's eyes gleamed from under his hood.

"You are wise to see this my friend. My teachings have not been lost on you, as I once feared."

 _You are strong and wise, Anakin._

A memory violently stirred from the depths of his subconscious. As he looked at the old man, never had he felt the comparison more apt.

Obi-Wan would have told him the same—Obi-Wan _had_. It had only taken twenty years for the lesson to stick.

 _She was dead_ —but a voice wrapped its tendrils around his crippled heart— _isn't it better, for she would hate you if she lived?_

"Is the boy like her?"

Vader stared at Sidious's back—the question, so innocently couched, did not register fully for a moment.

"I don't..."

"Does the son take after the mother?" the Emperor pressed, back still turned to Vader. "You have had some exposure to the genuine article—I have not. Surely such a simple question is not beyond you." He turned around. "Is he like _her_?"

He had considered their similarities so often—the nose, the chin, the birthmark, the stature—it didn't even occur to him to need to say it.

Every moment he was with the boy the resemblance grew—but he doubted the physical was what his master cared to know.

"He is his father's son, master."  
With a flash Palpatine turned—his speed betraying him for the Sith he was. "Then he is passionate, headstrong—reckless?"

"He is," Vader replied, uncertainty creeping into his voice. The Emperor seemed to have scented something in him, and so he persisted in his hunt.

"I venture that he is...idealistic and naive as well." "Very."

 _Like his father before him._

Palpatine broke into a wide, toothy smile, and inwardly Vader shrank—a long buried piece of him, a stirring ember of idealism rose up, banged against the prison of his soul—wordlessly urging him to _do something._

"This is good, my friend. So much the better for you." Vader tilted his helmet down.

"Why, master?"

"If he _is_ his father's son, he will be easier to seduce." Cold and creeping fear gripped Vader's heart. Palpatine must've sensed it, when he continued, softly, "You have not forgotten your failure with Amidala."

"...No," he said, softly. Vader bent his head, missing the sideways look the Emperor gave him.

"A passionate nature predisposed to darkness will suit our ends better than—pure idealism," he continued, matter-of-factly. "Let me guide you, my friend—" Vader's master's eyes lit up. "You have the weapon, allow me to teach you how to wield it."

"I have been robbed of what is mine," Vader growled, righteous fury stirring again—a fire his master was eager to stoke. Though he tutted, sympathetic, the Emperor's eyes gleamed with a malice that had, for Vader, become so normal he could hardly recognize it for what it was.

"As surely as you stand before me. Has that anger sustained you since you discovered him, Lord Vader?" he pressed. Vader did not answer. "You lured him to Bespin, Lord Vader. You _had_ him." The robed figure tapped his cane on the stone floor. "How?"

"He is loyal to his friends," he admitted, finally.

Palpatine shut his eyes and savored the words.

"That will be useful, but I sense..." His eyes snapped open. "That it is not the key." He narrowed his eyes.

"Tell me, my friend—what did Obi-Wan Kenobi say to the boy to gain his loyalty?" Vader, taken aback, answered almost immediately.

"He told him that _I_ killed his father."

"The irony is, I take it, not lost on you," Palpatine remarked, glancing down at Vader's clenched fist. "Kenobi believed revenge would be a powerful motivator." He studied his faithful servant, thoughtfully. "Perhaps _he_ understood the boy's weakness better than you do."

With a sudden, violent burst of power—like a beast rising from the depths of a glassy lake—the Emperor broke through the tenuous barrier that surrounded Vader's mind, seeking to extract an answer his servant could not provide—not directly.

 _Luke stared up at him, Luke as he was on Florrum—his expression mingled fear, dread and the emotion that frightened his father far more—_ hope.

 _Hope for the future. Hope for Vader himself._

His fortified mental shields fought against the seeping poison that was his master's presence. Vader's brutish power pushed at it, but when he pushed it out at last, the cold lingered.

The impression of Luke lingered, too.

"Sentiment," Palpatine said, at last, his lip curled in the faintest expression of amused contempt. "He _does_ take after his father."

Master and apprentice considered each other.

"You _do_ need my help, my friend. More than you realize." His expression turned grim. "The future is— uncertain."

"Tell me what must be done," Vader said, faintly.

"He will seek you out once more, Lord Vader—compelled by the ties of blood, Skywalker will come."

"And then?"

"You will bring him to me and I will—cement his loyalty."

"To the Empire...?"

"To the Empire, to the Dark Side..." he paused. "And most importantly, to _you_."

Vader overflowed with outrage at the implication—Luke _was_ loyal—until...

"You of _all_ men should know how quickly such bonds can _snap_ , Lord Vader."

The insinuation was sharp as a needle puncturing flash—and there was a flash of a beloved face, the life strangled out of it before his eyes. Luke wasn't like that—not like _him_ —

But could he become so, in time?

"He will turn?"

"One way...or another." The yellow eyes beneath the hood gleamed. "Do not concern yourself with the future, my friend. It is a burden that wearies you—and we have present matters to attend to."

"What matters, master?" he asked, faintly.

"You asked me why I brought Empire Day to Naboo."

Vader turned away from the distant statue of Queen Amidala and towards his master. He _had_ had a reason.

"The boy is not the only one who suffers from a surfeit of...sentimentality." Palpatine said, with a trace of silkiness. "You have kept that retreat in the lake country as a shrine for over twenty years, Vader—do not deny it," he continued, coldly. "You have clung to it for far too long. It weakens—and you will need strength for what lies ahead. You must...purge yourself."

"What would you have me do, master?"

His heart was sick at the image of Varykino in flames, Varykino demolished.

Palpatine chuckled, an oily, sibilant sound.

"Nothing so drastic as you imagine. I will return to Coruscant—and you will go there." Vader started in surprise. "Take Admiral Piett with you."

"Admiral Piett—"

"—Has never been to Naboo. Search your feelings—the purpose of his presence will become clear." He considered Vader. "You have run yourself to ground, my friend. You cannot deny it."

Vader could, indeed, not muster the energy to argue.

"It is only for a few days, my apprentice," he reassured, coldly. "Meditate. It will give you purpose— consider," he put one hand on the edge of Vader's armored elbow, half-placating but undeniably possessive. "Think of what you stand to lose— _that_ will give you strength."

He let go.

Vader watched the stooped figure of his master glide to the entrance of the tomb—with each step becoming more hunched over and frail, more the unassuming figure he presented to the world.

The Emperor turned around one last time.

"Then you will return to me."

 _There is no more cause to hide, Luke._

The glass panel slowly creaked open—and out of it emerged Luke. He tripped and stumbled over the step leading down from the pillar.

Vader remained—as he had been for the last ten minutes—facing the statue, but Luke saw how his father's shoulders tensed up when he drew close.

"Lucky these pillars were here," he ventured, awkwardly. "I mean—these panels...I've never seen something like them before."

His father said nothing.

"How did you know about them?"

"When she was queen, your—mother had these installed in the palace. For security reasons," Vader said, still not looking at his son. "They were connected to older passages out of the throne room."

Luke fiddled with the hidden door, fascinated. "How did they end up here?"

"Her successor believed them unnecessary, and so their use was discontinued." Another pause. "They were preserved as historical records only."

"So then...my mother never needed them?"

"...No. Naboo was under great scrutiny after the crisis. For the rest of her reign she was..." the Sith hesitated. "Never in any serious danger."

"Oh..."

Vader almost seemed to fidget.

"I believe she and her handmaids often used them as hiding places and for spying and...spreading palace gossip," Vader volunteered, suddenly.

Luke cracked a smile.

"Really? Doesn't seem too dignified."

"She was a very young queen," his father said, a tad—in Luke's opinion—defensively. It seemed like a good sign—maybe he could goad the man into turning around and looking at him.

"Well, I bet they heard a lot from inside these things—they amplify everything said outside—" Luke blanched and snapped his mouth shut.

He felt his father's presence withdraw even further from him—it dwindled, like a small creature scared of the light.

"Did _you_ ever hide out in one of these when they were in the palace?" he asked, gently.

"No. I only visited Naboo once when she was queen. We were separated for nearly ten years after we met."

"Where were you?"

"I was on Coruscant, learning to be a Jedi."

"...With Ben?"

"Yes," Vader answered, stiffly.

"And the Emperor?" Luke pressed, before he lost his nerve. At last Vader turned around.

"Luke—"

"You know what he said isn't _true._ " When Vader didn't immediately agree, Luke's temper flared. "I'm not going to...I don't need the dark side to—..." He trailed off, annoyed at his own verbal inadequacy. "That isn't going to happen."

He wouldn't say what _that_ was, though it hung like a specter between them.

"We are on opposite sides of the galactic war. You wish to be a Jedi knight, I am a Sith." Luke had never heard his father so mechanical, soldierly, practical—and sad, all at once. "We could not be further from each other if we were trying."

"That's not true—you _know_ it's not!" Vader turned towards him so sharply that Luke leaned on his back foot. "You can't believe something just because the Emperor says—"

"He is never wrong, Luke," Vader interrupted, desperation creeping into his voice. "He has foreseen everything—how do you think he became the Emperor of the Galaxy? How can I _possibly_ protect you from him when you put yourself in danger everywhere you turn?" His gloved hands clenched into gigantic fists—the symbol of Imperial might, turned into the telltale sign of anxiety. "How can I possibly _shield_ you from him?"

His son flinched.

"You've—you've done a good job so far—"

"Do not confuse dumb luck with skill," Vader replied, tartly. "There's no such thing as 'luck'—"

"Quoting _Obi-Wan_ will not help your case, young one. Not with me." Luke fell silent.

"He doesn't know I'm here _now_ ," the boy pointed out, suddenly. "He would have gone after me—I was only a few meters away from where he was standing." Vader's fists relaxed again. "How do you explain that?"

"That is..." The Sith seemed at a temporary loss. "He...my Master, the Emperor..." He sounded like one who needed to remind himself of the fact. "May know you are here."

"He would have said all that to you knowing I could _hear_?" Luke asked, incredulous.

Vader thought of his master—would he have been so arrogant, to flaunt his victory in front of the boy before it was won? If so, he had proven how little he understood Luke, for the boy was repulsed by his father's relationship...repulsed in the way that Vader understood all too well.

But the alternative...how could his master _not_ know, not sense the blinding supernova that was Luke?

"He may believe I will bring you to him."

"But you would never do that."

Vader felt her eyes staring down at him—cool, regal—the queen that had first intimidated a young boy who only wished to speak to Padmé.

"My alternative is to allow you to escape, rejoin the rebels..." he trailed off, but the unspoken words hung in the air between them.

 _You'll come after me. You'll betray me. What he said will come to pass._

Luke seemed to hear his unspoken thoughts.

"You know me better than that."

"Do I?"

Luke took a step forward.

"How did you know I'd be here?" he asked, suddenly.

Vader was momentarily dumbstruck by the question.

"What do you—"

"You didn't sense me. I was shielding myself well—you didn't even try to reach out—"

"There was a risk that the Emperor could feel our connection."

"But you came right here," his son pressed. "Aphra couldn't have passed my message along more than a few hours ago...and I didn't tell her where I was going—"

"I don't need to be told," Vader snapped, impatiently. "You are my _son_."

The small, triumphant smile on Luke's face was unexpected, but not unwelcome.

"See?" Luke was only a foot away from him. "You don't give yourself enough credit."

"For what?" he asked, voice heavy with irony. Luke chose to ignore it.

"For knowing me."

Vader stopped short.

As soon so he had realized Luke was on the planet, there was no question in his mind where he would find his son.

"You're very much like her," Vader said, finally. "You said—"

"I am _aware_ of what I told the Emperor, Luke," he cut off the boy, crisply. "I was not forthcoming with him—but I did not lie, either." Vader turned back towards him. "In many ways, you _are_ your father's son."

"But why does that matter to him?" Luke frowned. "He believes he can appeal to your sense of justice."

Luke was momentarily taken aback by the implication of his father's words—that he believed they shared a sense of justice—and his sense through the Force that it was true.

"Is that how he convinced you?" he asked, cautious.

"Partly."

"And what exactly is so _just_ about the Empire?"

"Once your rebellion is placated and the Empire's resources can be allocated to civilian purpose, perhaps Imperial justice will become clearer to you," Vader remarked, dryly.

Another circuitous political discussion was almost a welcome relief from the myriad of other questions Luke could ask him.

"Even if the Alliance _was_ destroyed—" Luke turned towards him, his eyes burning fiercely. "Someone would rise to take its place. Tyranny can never stamp out true justice. Not completely."

"Foolish idealism is something you share with your mother—not with me." A small voice in the deep recesses of Vader's mind roiled against that. "As it is," he continued, wearily. "I have lived at the heart of the alternative. There is no other way."

"You've told me my mother believed in the Republic."

Vader looked where his son did—to the image of her, glass and color, looking down on them from the wall and ceiling above her final resting place.

"If the rest of the Senate had one tenth of her wisdom and integrity the Republic would have lasted another ten thousand years."

Luke would not have thought that Darth Vader's deep, baritone voice, designed as it was to terrify, could be filled with so much reverence. Luke recalled that brief conversation they had had on Florrum. Vader admitted to having defended the Republic with his life when he was a Jedi knight—and his father's statement had reeked with a personal sort of bitterness that had taken his son by surprise.

Vader had accused him of holding up the Republic as a shining ideal...but his son had the distinct impression he wasn't the only one guilty of it.

"It sounds like she was really something," he said, adding a touch of experimental flippancy. Vader rounded on him instantly.

"She was much more than _that_ ," his father said, severely. Luke's face twitched with a barely suppressible smile. "What?"

"Nothing—I was just thinking..." _You loved her so much._ "It doesn't matter."

The coldness of the Emperor's presence still permeated the room, the planet—but the dying light of the sun through the seamless cast a warm glow that diffused it.

"I'm sorry I came here," Luke broke the silence between them. "Without speaking to you, knowing the danger."

"Your desire is natural," his father rumbled, quietly. "There is nothing to apologize for."

"I was just—" The young pilot hesitated. "—I was jealous of you, getting to come here whenever you want to." _Knowing her._ "Here I am, twenty-three, and this is the first time I've ever visited her grave..."

" _That_ is something we share."

"You've never been here before?" he asked, astounded. Vader didn't seem to want to face him.

"No."

"Why not?"

 _Guilt. Shame. Fear._

 _Pain._

A wave of emotions, unprecedented openness—flashed through Luke—some of the foreign feelings mixed with his own and swirled around, paradoxically magnifying and binding them together.

 _Grief. Loss._

"Because I am weak."

 _His master was right. He was a fool, the same fool he'd been there, weighed down by his fear of loss—_

"You have a plan for getting me out of here, don't you?" The soft touch of a hand on his arm.

Vader looked down at the hand—black-gloved, a prosthetic, just as the arm it touched was—two wounds —a place where two wounds met.

"My admiral has arranged for transportation off of Naboo for you," he answered, quietly. Luke nodded and swallowed.

"How much longer do I have?"

"His agent should be here within the hour."

The boy nodded again before raising his face to Vader's again.

"Will you...stay with me?" Vader took in the expression on his son's still so young face. He was smiling, but his eyes were glassy.

Luke was crying. "I will."

Luke turned his face, embarrassed—he was so vulnerable, and though it was not the first time he'd noticed, it was all the more obvious now—and wiped the tears.

They stood together, looking up at her, silent. The impenetrable mystery of her absence bound them—for they were, Vader felt, in this moment, the only two beings in the universe who understood.

And that was how, after twenty-three years of self-denial, Anakin Skywalker allowed himself to grieve.


	5. Chapter 5

If it _was_ to be treason, Piett thought, it was fitting that it be committed helping his Lord with such a personal matter.

He flashed an access pass at one of the few Naboo security guards left on the grounds of the royal mausoleum and ducked his head down again. His unobtrusive mien _was_ useful in its way. Certainly nobody would have looked at him and assumed 'traitor'—if it weren't for the uniform, he doubted they would have associated him with an _iota_ of the military power he had at his command.

As he approached the mausoleum that was the centerpiece of this sea of graves, his steps slowed in reverence.

Vader hadn't said why they were here in his encoded message, but he could read the gigantic word in _Aurebesh_ well enough.

 _Amidala._

He stared at the name, carved in stone—until the light sound of footsteps drew his eyes back down to the entrance to the tomb, where a figure emerged. When the Admiral stepped from the shadows, the boy jumped.

"Skywalker?"  
A pair of bright, crystalline eyes met Piett's.

"Is it...Admiral Piett?" He nodded, and Skywalker smiled, though it didn't quite meet those bright eyes—which were glassy and suggested, to the older man, weariness. But he stuck his hand out with gusto and when Piett grasped it, the shake was firm. "You're shorter than I pictured."

"So are you."  
Skywalker released his grip on Piett's hand and rubbed his shoulder, chagrined.

"You won't be the last one to say that, Admiral," he murmured, looking back at the heavy door and frowning. "Your agent is coming, aren't they?"

"She should be here within the hour."  
The boy nodded absently—his mind clearly still preoccupied with what lay inside the tomb. Piett studied the young man in the fading Naboo twilight. It was, he knew, probably the only

chance he'd ever get to observe Skywalker unencumbered by his superior's presence, and the boy himself was so intent on keeping watch at the door he barely noticed.

He was short—about the same height as Piett himself, and slight. He looked young, even though Piett knew from the reports that he was just twenty-three standard years old. It shouldn't have surprised him—only seeing with his own eyes the pilot who destroyed the Death Star fiddle with the zipper of his flight suit drew attention to the fact in way that unsettled his dispassionate sensibilities.

His blond hair was far longer than any imperial junior officer's, shaggy and unkempt—right now it stuck to his neck and forehead from sweat. He, on the whole, looked rather shabby, his disguise a haphazard collection of mismatched freighter pilot gear that probably _drew_ more than deflected attention.

He was, in short, as far from Lord Vader's son as Piett could possibly imagine.

He glanced down at Skywalker's side—no lightsaber, the one thing that would have clearly and unequivocally marked him as Vader's own—and Piett had read the ISB intelligence, he knew the boy was known to use one. No, there was little that suggested the connection between father and son, which was perhaps how it had been kept a secret for so long.

Who, seeing Vader and Skywalker next to each other, would even believe it? He cleared his throat.

"Where is—?" The Admiral cut himself off before the words that denoted the unlikely relationship came out of his mouth. Skywalker didn't seem to notice.

"He needed some time alone." It was with an embarrassing start that he remembered what it was that had brought Skywalker to Naboo in the first place. "He'll be out in a moment. Then I can say goodbye—"

"Lord Vader instructed that you leave as soon as the agent arrives." Skywalker's eyes flashed in obstinance.

"I'm waiting."

"But—"

" _Luke_!"

Piett and Skywalker turned in unison towards the figure—jogging, in full Naboo pilot helmet and flight suit, toward them. Piett's innards turned cold for a moment, and then the princess took off her helmet and swung a heavy and simple braid around her shoulders.

His heart began to beat again.

"Leia!" Skywalker, said, delighted and baffled all at once. _Princess Leia Organa of the Royal_

 _House of Alderaan_. "What are you _doing_ here? How did you even know I was here—?"

"That agent—from the Droid _Gotra_ —" Piett watched the princess embrace Skywalker's shoulders, as though she was trying to prove to herself he _was_ there, in front of her. "She commed you when I was in your room, on that—some private channel she said she gave you."

Buried in her voice, amidst the relief, was steely concern.

"You spoke to Aphra?" He pointedly ignored the implied question. "What did she—how much did she say?"

"She said she worked for someone—but wouldn't give me specifics—who also wanted to get you off the planet." Her brown eyes softened in worry. "Luke, don't you know the _Emperor_ is here?"

"Yes—" The boyish innocence—a natural quality, Piett could tell—diminished, leaving something steely of its own in its wake. "I've just seen him."

Organa's hands dropped from his shoulder in horror.

"Luke—"

"How much does she know?"

Piett was surprised to find Skywalker turning to him, of all people, for answers.

"Doctor Aphra thought it prudent to come to me directly. Her plan was to get you safely off the planet before her, erm, _employer_ was any the wiser."

"Funny thing about plans, Admiral," Skywalker said, his already-ashen skin paling. He looked grave—it didn't suit him.

" _Admiral_?" The princess repeated, incredulous.

"Leia—" He turned slowly, steeling himself. "You remember that talk we had, right before I left?" She stared back—a long, piercing look—before answering that she did.

"I want you to know before—" He faltered. "I _was_ going to tell you."

"Going to tell me—"

"—The _truth_ ," he interrupted, quickly, and his next words came out in a jumble. "I was going to tell you when I got back, I just needed—to think—I needed to come to terms with it on my own..."

"Come to terms with _what_?"

"My orders were clear, Admiral."

Amazing how Vader—massive, his modulated breathing _so_ distinct—could still take the citizens of the galaxy (or, as Piett was coming to think of it, the players who surrounded his own personal holodrama) by surprise.

Princess Leia was certainly taken aback—but her shock at the gigantic figure emerging from the stone doorway behind Skywalker very soon gave way to righteous anger.

" _Vader_ ," she spat, furiously.

"Your highness," he answered, evenly—and Piett thought, as though his heart was not quite up to the task. "A...conspicuous choice for such a delicate mission."

"I'm not here on behalf of the Alliance, Vader." She turned to the imperial officer, the vague smile she had given him before she embraced Skywalker replaced by icy contempt. "And... _Admiral_ , is it?"

"Admiral Firmus Piett of the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_ , your highness." He shared one pained look with Luke and took a short, stiff bow.

"You'll forgive me if I don't wish to stand on ceremony, Admiral Piett," she said. "When you said your intel was 'tenuous', I didn't realize you meant it was being fed to me by the third highest ranking member of the _Empire_."

Piett had been prepared for her to be angry, and distrustful—but not for the cuttingly polite way he had only ever known royalty to use when speaking to an undesirable. He coughed, abashed.

"This exchange was meant to be brief—and my identity beside the point—"

"Yes, after you handed Luke and I over to Vader, I suppose it _would_ be."

"Leia," Skywalker said, quietly. "Nobody is preventing us from—"

"Doctor Aphra contacted you?" Vader interrupted his son, smoothly.

The princess's head snapped back in his direction.

"Yes," she said, finally. "She works for _you_ , doesn't she?" Piett didn't think he'd ever heard such vitriol be volleyed at Vader, not even by the men who were strangled moments later.

"She is my agent," Vader answered, ever placid in the face of this slip of a girl's ire. Piett found it almost more disconcerting. "No doubt she contacted you because your loyalty to the boy outstrips your loyalty to the Rebel High Command."

The admiral coughed—as far as he knew, it had been total blind luck that the princess had answered Aphra's call, but Vader need never know that.

"What are you talking about?"

"You came _alone_ , princess. None of your insurgent leaders know you're here."

"How could you possibly—"

"Even if rebel intelligence _is_ too poor to know of the Emperor's presence here, Mon Mothma would not have allowed you to come to Naboo for Skywalker." Vader tilted his head, circumspect. "Not even if she knew his real importance."

"Which is all the better for you," she exclaimed, dramatically—Piett thought, nearly _hysterically_. "Now you have Luke right where you want him."

If Vader's mask could show emotion, his subordinate imagined a slow blink of incredulity from his commander. His son stepped between them.

"That's not true, Leia—this wasn't a trap." He put a hand on her shoulder—it had an instant and perceptible calming effect. "He had no idea I'd be here."

"But why does it _matter_ , Luke, now that he has us?"

"Your accusations weary, princess," Vader cut her off, his usual impatience resurfacing. "They are as baseless as they are shrill." She opened her mouth but he rattled on before the diatribe Piett guessed she always had on hand could begin again. "I speak of your insistence that I lured Skywalker here and intend to hand him over to the Emperor."

"You aren't going to let us go _free_ ," she said, faintly, laughing at an idea that even the imperial officer could see from her perspective must be absurd.

"Doctor Aphra and the Admiral did not deceive you in their intentions."

"You can't mean—"

"If I wished to take Skywalker by force, princess," Vader interrupted, bluntly. "I would have removed him from Florrum after the pirates there handed him over to me."

Skywalker blanched, and when the princess turned to him, Piett wasn't sure he had ever seen a man look like he wanted to be someplace _less_ than the young pilot did now.

And Piett's own promotion had been in the wake of his predecessor's strangulation before his very eyes.

"What is he talking about, Luke?"

"Skywalker was in my custody on the planet Florrum," Vader continued patiently, as though speaking to a child. "The Weequayan mercenaries drew him there with the promise of information about Captain Solo's whereabouts, but they... _incapacitated_ him, fully aware _he_ was worth far more than what he could pay them for their information."

She was totally transfixed by Vader's story.

"A firefight broke out while I was extracting him, which forced me to...place him in the care of my agent—Doctor Aphra. She returned him to the Rebel Alliance on my behest."

"Why are you telling me this?"

Her voice, calm and deadly serious, so very quiet—Piett had to strain to make out the words. It didn't match his picture of the fiery woman, not from the recordings he had seen of her orations in the Imperial Senate—nor did the frightened look in her eyes, which spoke to how little she wanted Vader to answer her.

He didn't. Skywalker's mouth opened, but he, too, shut it again, uncertain. And so, once again, it fell to _him_ —

"I believe," Piett stepped forward, hesitant. "I believe Lord Vader is pointing out that it makes little sense, given that he had Skywalker in custody _already_ —"

"I understand what he means, _Admiral_ ," she snapped, voice hoarse. "I want to know...I want to know why he's telling _me_."

Vader considered her for a long moment. Then, to Piett's surprise, he turned his impressive form in the direction of his much slighter son, whose shoulders were slumped, making him look even smaller and younger—if, _stars_ , that was even possible.

"You should ask your friend."

But her brown eyes had already turned to Skywalker, his gaze clear, no longer afraid to meet hers.

"It's true, Leia."

"But I...I don't understand. You lied to the council in your briefing. You must've realized what a serious breach this is—why...why did you do it?"

"Because he knew your insurgent leaders would demand answers—"

Piett wondered if Vader was conscious of it when he placed one of his massive hands on Skywalker's slim shoulder—if he knew how it looked.

The princess certainly did, for her flushed face turned chalk white.

Her lip trembled, and she looked, for the first time, just as young as Skywalker did.

"Are you _colluding_ with the Empire?"

The boy physically recoiled—as though he was in the cockpit of the X-Wing that had so famously destroyed the Death Star and had been hit by a volley of TIE-fighters, sending him spinning off course. It took him a moment to recover from the blow.

He shrugged off his father's grip and moved closer to the princess.

"It's not like that—"

"A grave accusation, your highness," Vader rumbled, dangerously. Was he insulted by the inference of his son's disloyalty? Incongruous as the image of Vader taking personal pride in anything was, what else could it be? He _wished_ for his son's defection. "On what grounds do you base it?"

Before the princess could stutter a response, the boy surprised them both and turned on his Vader, temper rising.

" _Anyone_ would assume it from what you said—you know," Skywalker clenched his jaw. "You _know_ why I haven't told anyone in the Alliance."

"But do _you_ , Luke?" Vader countered, a new urgency in his voice.

Piett was struck by a—totally irrational—urge to intervene, for the boy looked as though he was being rent in two by the force of these colossal personages.

"You think I haven't been thinking about it?" he said, voice harder. "Once an hour every _day_ I'm reminded that I'm...that I'm not like any of them." The boy choked. "Not anymore."

"You never were."

"Leia—" The young man looked back at his friend, and Piett saw that this boy was as capable of losing that innocent shine as anyone else. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you came here, that I dragged you into this—and for the danger I've put you in every day since the day we met."

"Luke—that's absurd." She put both hands on his shoulders again, and the tenderness Piett saw there was evidence that all accusations and intrigues were already forgotten. "You saved me— since the moment we met, that's all you've done. You saved all of us. Where is this _coming_ from?

" _What did you tell him on Bespin, Vader_?"

"The truth," Vader said, simply.

"What _truth_?"

"He is my son."

There. Out. Acknowledged. Piett watched in grim fascination as the Alderaanian princess's

delicate features contorted in blank shock, the full—and undoubtedly, to her, horrifying— implication of Vader's words hitting her in stages, not unlike the graduated waves that an ion bomb made when it was dropped in the water.

"That's a lie," Vader didn't even deign a response. "Luke, you can't possibly—your father was a _Jedi knight_. You showed him to me yourself."

"And don't you remember what you said, Leia?" Skywalker asked, sighing gently. "You told me he reminded you of someone you knew."

"What is she speaking of?" Vader demanded, quickly, while Piett watched the second wave of comprehension dawn on the princess.

"Hondo gave me an old holo of you...from the Clone Wars."

"I should have gutted that pirate," Vader snapped, clenching his enormous fists, while Piett gaped quietly at his side. Clearly he had underestimated the cheek of the pirate he had spoken to briefly from the bridge of the _Executor_ weeks before.

He hoped that Vader's supposed prescience didn't extend to guessing his subordinate's thoughts...for he would dearly like to see the holo of Anakin Skywalker.

"He doesn't even know who you are—"

"You cannot take that for granted, Luke. And even now—"

What was promising to break into a full-on family spat was thankfully cut off by loud crackling from Piett's comm. _An incoming transmission._

"Answer it, Admiral," Vader ordered, stonily. " _Now_."

The Admiral fumbled with the switch on the communicator.

"Piett," he said into the receiver, clearing his throat.

The tinny voice in his ear rattled off words—a series of sentences, in fact, and each one made his colorless blue eyes widen further.

"Yes, ensign—no one, absolutely _no one_ —the planet is secure, you have my fleet's full cooperation, of—they already do. All travel—I will inform Lord Vader at once."

He switched off the communicator with a snap of the wrist. The three humans with him all stared in his direction—schooled enough in military and imperial matters to have gleaned what mattered from his end of the conversation.

"Lord Vader—there is...a problem." _More_ of a problem, he should have said. He glanced between Leia—still frozen somewhere between catatonia and disgust—and Luke Skywalker, looking far older than his years again, and so white he might've been a corpse. "One of our— ISB's agents in Theed visually identified the princess." Leia's eyes sparked to life again. "The informant—reported directly to the authorities here on Naboo, not the royal imperial garrison, meaning—Governor Tychum was given this information." Vader hissed in disgust.

"A blockade of the planet has been ordered, then?"

"Until Princess Leia Organa is captured."

Vader growled in frustration.

"Who granted Tychum the authority?" he asked, knowing full well that there was only one personage who could go above his head and order such a thing.

"The Emperor, Lord Vader."

The silence that followed Piett's pronouncement was eerie.

"You should _not_ have come here."

Skywalker showed his natural-born mettle by doing what nearly no one would've been willing to in his situation; he actually stepped _between_ the Dark Lord of the Sith and someone on his warpath.

"It's not her fault—I'm the one who shouldn't have come."

The princess gently but firmly pushed past him to face Vader directly.

"Tell me, Vader—did you tell Luke his parentage before or after you _cut off his hand_?"

"I seek neither your censure nor your countenance, your highness."

"You expect me to believe you would do that to your own _son_?"

"It was regrettable," Vader, to Piett's supreme surprise, admitted. "But necessary."

" _Necessary_?"

"Luke might've yielded when he was bested, had he not been poisoned by the lies of Obi-Wan Kenobi—and _your_ rebellion."

"Lord Vader!" Piett interrupted, hastily scrambling to prevent the princess causing a scene and exposing their collective treason for half of Naboo to see. "Time is pressing—perhaps these matters could be discussed— _later_?"

"You are...correct, admiral," Vader said, after a long moment of what his subordinate imagined to be forcible self-control. "The princess's...position is compromised. No ship will be allowed to leave without—inspection."

 _By they that are loyal to the Emperor alone,_ Piett read between the lines.

"Not immediately. The boy will have to be hidden here on Naboo. But not in Theed..."

An idea began to form in Piett's mind—mad to suggest, but with a kind of poetry that appealed to the boy that had once dreamed, not of martial glory, but of being an artist.

"No, my lord...in the _Naboo Lake Country_."

That _Piett_ knew of Varykino— _Varykino_ , always said within the confines of his mind with an air of reverence—the place where Vader had married his wife nearly twenty-six years earlier, had not even occurred to the Sith. It should have, for his Master had, after all, ordered that he take the man with him on this forced retreat to the lakeside estate.

The Emperor had apparently not spared Piett any _sliver_ of pertinent information.

A clearer picture was beginning to form in Vader's mind of the reason why.

The admiral's idea had practical merit. Even though his master knew of the retreat house—nobody else would. They could be afforded the promise of reasonable security and privacy.

Hiding his son there would be full of far more _personal_ land-mines.

He needn't know of any of that that, Vader told himself, but even his long-cultivated denial crumbled in the face of reality. He could hardly pretend he didn't know why Luke had come to Naboo in the first place.

And then there was the rebel princess...

"You know I will never go willingly with you anywhere, Vader."

"You have no choice, princess."

Her presence on the planet drew enough attention to Luke without her being captured and interrogated—he could not trust her strong will would hold out, however much it had withstood on the Death Star.

His master might be involved with the extraction this time.

His son would not quickly forgive him if something were to happen to her.

"Leia—" Luke stepped forward, far more confident now. "If he was going to hand us over to the Emperor, he would have already."

"Is that supposed to make it _alright?_ "

Vader's son flinched at the cold tone—but she wasn't looking at him. She only had eyes for the father.

"No," Luke said to her back, his voice softening. "But what else can we do?"

Vader met her gaze, and the steady, clear eyes pulled him out of his usual ambivalence to her—yet another traitor to the Empire, for all her potential. Now, though...he felt a tremor in the Force. It was almost as if...crudely...she was trying to glean his intentions.

"Fine."

Luke and Piett exchanged looks of relief, and the latter began rattling off a list of possible exit strategies for them to get out of the city. Clearly he hoped, as Luke did, that he could stave off the objections so close to the princess's lips.

"Leave their removal to the lake country to me, admiral," Vader ordered, calmly. "I have some experience in this matter."

"Of course, my lord."

"Time is of the essence," Vader said, transferring his attention from the princess to his son. "We cannot waste it."

"I know that—" Luke froze in horror. " _Artoo_!" The princess's face also fell. "I left him at the gates—I have to go get him."

"And I left Threepio with my transport," she admitted, gritting her teeth in displeasure. That news didn't improve Luke's anxiety any.

"You _brought_ him?"

"You know how he worries about you and Artoo!" she said, defensively. "I couldn't leave him behind, he _insisted_."

" _I_ will retrieve the droids."

Both rebels, shocked, turned their heads toward him in near perfect unison. Vader had begun to notice that it was a pattern of behavior quite common to them, but he could not place why he found it so unsettling.

"They cannot be left to be discovered. Where is the astromec?"

"I left him by the southeastern gates to the cemetery," Luke answered, automatically.

"And the protocol droid?"

Princess Leia, surprising no one, did not answer so quickly.

"Would you prefer he be discovered by one of the many ISB agents present here for the festivities?" he asked, sardonically.

Her expression hardened, her cheeks flushed—but the point was taken. Stoically, she told him her ship's location—and as Vader walked away from her and towards R2D2's location at the gates of the grounds, he felt the imprint of her distrust and confusion burn his back.

* * *

"I do not require your _assistance._ "

The blue and white astromec chirped loudly and in a way that even someone unversed in binary could tell was rude.

"Hopefully your counterpart will prove more _useful_ to me."

Vader didn't stoop to respond to the droid's obvious alarm—it was beneath his dignity to do so. And it only encouraged his old astromec's tendency to be overly familiar.

He found Princess Leia's landspeeder exactly where she told him he would, expertly disguised to look like all the other merchant spice freighters in Theed. Whoever had given her up on Naboo had not done so because of the conspicuousness of her transport—it was clunky and outdated, and Vader took a small amount of petty pleasure ripping its door off.

"Protocol droid—come out," he ordered, over Artoo's beeps of disapproval.

"Ah—" A tinny, too-familiar voice called from inside. "Who—who is it?"

Impatient, Vader was on the verge of answering—knowing full well that the truth would terrify Threepio out of his wits—when the astromec spared him and rushed forward, issuing a series of excited whistles and beeps.

"Artoo? Is that you?"

The familiar gold protocol droid peaked his head around the charred remains of the speeder door.

"Oh, thank the _maker_ —"

He stopped abruptly when his optical receivers processed the unmistakable black figure looming behind his friend.

"C3P0—command override _epsilon-delta-one-four-eight-two-creator_ ," Vader said, clearly and smoothly, and Threepio's hysteria ended before it could begin. "Come _here_."

The droid took a moment to process Vader's command override—the command override he had programmed him with nearly thirty years before, when he had built Threepio—and then obeyed.

"Of course, Master Anakin."

Vader inwardly cringed—Artoo trilled out several choice remarks he regretted understanding.

"Silence," he ordered the smaller droid. Unfortunately, he had no override power over Artoo, and his only response was to roll protectively in front of his very confused friend. "Threepio—walk with me."

Artoo growled.

"You will both be returned to Luke," Vader reassured him, stiffly. Threepio, of course, was already obeying—and his counterpart reluctantly followed his former master and friend.

They walked—an odd procession if ever there was one—for several long minutes, in silence. The scant security personnel in this part of the city recognized Vader, but none of them had the nerve to ask _why_ he was there.

Vader was too deeply engrossed in his own thoughts—the question of _where_ to begin. Well, there was only one thing that really mattered in the end.

"Droid—C3P0—" he started, awkwardly. "Tell me...how you came to be in the service of Luke Skywalker."

Threepio tilted his head, as he always did when he was processing a complex question from one of his human masters.

"Gladly, Master Anakin—" Artoo twittered in protest. "Silence, Artoo—honestly, it's Master _Anakin_ asking, why wouldn't I trust him?"

" _Luke_ , Threepio," Vader insisted, all too aware that his command code did not negate the protocol droid's eccentricity of manner. He snapped his attention back to Vader.

"Of course, sir—it's just that, well, Artoo here is, as _usual_ , most of the reason for that—"

Vader pressed, and in the space of a long walk (amidst numerous protests from his old companion) he learned of the two droids attaining the Death Star plans from the princess, of their escape from the _Tantive IV_ after he had boarded it, of how they had landed on Tatooine, been captured by Jawas and sold to an unknowing Luke...how Artoo had lead _him_ to Obi-Wan.

The Force had been at work here.

Bits and pieces of the story he had surmised were confirmed, new details that Threepio could not possibly understand the significance of stoked the embers of Vader's anger.

The anger only the lost years of his son's life could bring. A new, rarely considered object of his wrath took shape.

"How long were you in Bail Organa's service, Threepio?"

He told him.

Vader heard nothing but the steady sound of his own regulated breaths.

He knew... _he knew!_

"...And does that conform with your last memory wipe?"

He didn't need the affirmation from Threepio—or Artoo's low, almost mournful whistle—to understand _exactly._

* * *

The second Admiral Piett walked out of earshot—consumed by the small matter of smuggling two galaxy-known criminals into the Lake Country of Naboo—Luke had expected Leia to pepper him with questions.

Instead he was left with silence—a _blank_ silence.

In the three years he'd known her, Luke had never had _less_ of an idea what she was thinking.

He'd felt a connection to Leia the moment he'd seen her image on that holo from Artoo's memory bank what felt like a lifetime ago. He had known, as he had known about few people in his life, that he was meant to help her. Something inexorable—he was sure Ben and his father would call it destiny, Yoda, perhaps, the Force itself—had pulled him to Ben Kenobi, who had brought him to Han, who had brought him to _her._

 _And she had brought him to his father._

"Do you believe it's true, Luke?"

The question—couched in a flat, bland tone—this was her _politician's_ voice, something he'd heard used on other people, but never when addressing him—broke the silence between them. It took him off guard for a moment.

Luke glanced at Piett, still preoccupied, then back at her.

"I didn't at first," he admitted, sighing heavily. "I mean, I didn't _want_ to. I can't explain how, only...I _knew_ that he was speaking the truth."

A shadow crossed over his face. Telling her _the Force_ had told him felt foolish, like explaining to Han that Vader and he could communicate telepathically would.

If, _when_ , he saw Han again, he imagined his friend's reaction to everything that had happened.

Anyway, he _had_ proof now, irrefutable proof—an overheard exchange, ringing in his head, stinging like a fresh wound, any shock that might've dulled the pain over and done with. He _knew_.

What the conversation between Vader and the Emperor had revealed, more than anything, was that he was running out of time.

"And that's _enough_ for you?"

"Would a blood test satisfy you, princess?"

Vader's rumbling voice cut the debate short. He glided towards them, Threepio and Artoo at his side, looking every bit as ridiculous as Luke had imagined they would.

" _Artoo—Threepio_!"

"Master Luke!"

The fussy gold droid waddled forward, happily away from Vader. Artoo, conversely, lingered at the dark lord's side.

The blank-faced princess turned icy again.

"I have many questions, Vader—I don't think a blood test would satisfy _any_ of them."

Luke wondered if it mattered to her, what he was—in the way that _counted_ , or if the burning anger he could feel radiating from her was all because of Han, and everything else the Empire and Vader had done to her. He couldn't blame her, but he was afraid of what that anger would do to Leia if she stoked the fire.

"If you seek answers, princess, you need look no farther than your own house."

The crushing weight of Naboo, his master—and, most of all, _Luke—_ had left the Sith who had emerged from Amidala's tomb an hour before muted. But _now_ —his famous temper, the anger that constantly roiled beneath the surface of Luke's father's mind, barely fettered—flared up.

Unconsciously, she stepped backwards. _Leia felt it, too.  
_

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Beneath the animal instinct of fear was genuine surprise.

"When I captured you above Tatooine, who were you seeking? From whom did you get the coordinates that lead _this_ droid _,"_ he gestured roughly at Artoo. "—To _Obi-Wan Kenobi_?"

"My father—" Her eyes flashed dangerously, her voice trembled with barely controlled anger. "General Kenobi served him, was his _friend_ —"

"He colluded with Obi-Wan, he helped him _conceal_ my son from me for _twenty years_!" The ground around him shook. "He _stole him_."

Luke heard Piett's comm slip from his hands and fall on the courtyard's stone.

For a moment Leia was struck dumb.

"Even if that _was_ true," she finally said. "What possible proof do you have?"

Vader—hands clenched at his side, in a near identical stance of leashed fury—did not answer. The reply came, to everyone's shock, from R2-D2.

"What are you talking about, Artoo?" Threepio marched over to his counterpart and banged him on the head. "Don't you think I'd _know_ if Lord Vader used an override command to poke around my memory banks?

Luke and Leia's heads swung towards Vader.

"Is _that_ why you offered to get Threepio? So you could steal Alliance secrets?"

"Anything this droid knows about the Rebel Alliance does not concern me, your highness," Vader replied, and Luke once again heard his habitual weariness. "Only how he and the astromec ended up in its possession."

She ran a hand through her hair, impatient.

"They were assigned to my father's ship years ago—

"I could have told you that," Luke chimed in, putting a hand on Threepio's shoulder, protectively.

"You could not have told me how they came into Bail Organa's possession, my son, and _that_ is what I wanted to know.

His father turned toward his mother's tomb and stared up at the impressive stone facade.

"Why would that matter?" Luke asked, truly puzzled. "Who did they belong to before?"

Vader did not answer—just continued to stare up at the mausoleum...until Artoo, who had always straddled the line between brave and insane, rolled up behind him and nudged him.

Luke had seen the gesture, had been on the receiving end of it so often, it was impossible for him not to recognize it for what it was.

"My _mother_?" he asked, quietly.

Vader didn't reply.

He heard Leia's voice catch in her throat.

Artoo creeped towards him, slowly—and Luke kneeled and patted the top of his head.

"Perhaps the astromec's loyalty is now better explained to you," Vader said, as quietly as his modulated voice would allow him to be. "You have my blessing to question him."

"But Threepio—"

"—Had his memory wiped long ago." He turned toward Luke.

 _It's better that way._

"Padmé Amidala is your _mother_ , Luke?"

Leia, who had been still and pale and _so silent,_ now stared up at the giant stone carving above the tomb.

"I only found out recently—that's why I came here," Luke's mouth turned into a thin line. "I got us into this mess. I'm so sorry, Leia."

But she was looking past Luke, at Vader—brown eyes narrowed with a curiosity he had never seen in them—as if she was seeing Vader for the first time.

"Queen Amidala—"

"I suggest you choose your next words _carefully_ , princess," Vader rumbled, darkly.

"Queen Amidala," she repeated, emphatically. "Was a great leader, a champion of the Republic —"

" _An_ associate _of your father_ ," the Sith finished for her, voice suddenly tight and piercing.

"He _was_?" Luke looked between them, his perplexity growing. "Your father and my mother knew each other, Leia?"

"They served in the Senate together," she said, her eyes never leaving Vader. "Before the fall of the Republic. They were both on the Loyalist Committee before and during the Clone War, I think a few other judiciary committees—"

" _He_ told you this?" Vader's fist tightened perceptibly. "He _spoke_ of her?"

"My education on Alderaan was extensive," she said, impatient. "The Empire hasn't buried history as much as it would like to think—not recent history. And she was too influential to be...to be buried." Her voice faltered. "I did ask him about her, once. He told me..." Luke watched his father's hand shake in blank fascination. "It would be better if I didn't speak of her."

"Did he tell you how she _died_?"

The question hung in the air like a black cloud.

"Of course not!" she said, her own voice trembling. "Why would he know anything about—"

"He was _with her._ "

They stood there—Admiral of the Imperial Navy, rebel princess, droids, and farmer—pilot— _son_. If Piett hadn't already dropped his comm you could've heard it fall on the stone, a sharp rap just discernible over the faint sounds of the distant Empire Day parades. The Emperor would have made his remarks to the crowd of humans pulled from the more compliant of Naboo's human population by now, and those remarks had been broadcast to all the core worlds.

Luke wondered if his father's absence from the Emperor would be noticed by anyone. If it even occurred to them, the thought absently flitting through their minds—did they imagine him detained by an insurgency, another planetary uprising that needed to be quashed, the Empire's deadliest weapon, the inexorable machine, doing the only thing it was meant for?

Could they even _imagine_ a scene like this?

Artoo broke the silence with a low, mournful whistle.

"The transport, Piett?" Vader said, in a monotone voice. His subordinate snapped to attention at once. "They made contact while I was away."

" _En route_. He's going to pick up the princess and Skywalker at the southwestern gate."

"You will accompany them—these droids included—and then rendezvous with me at the palace," he ordered, already walking away. "The Emperor expects us at the final audience with Queen Apollonia."

"But—"

"I will rejoin you soon enough, young one," Vader said, tone not broaching argument. "At Varykino."

"At _Varykino_?" Luke called after the massive, retreating form—but he was either already out of earshot, or he simply ignored the boy.

And with a swish of his cape, he was gone.

"Varykino?" he repeated to Piett, curious, testing out the sound of the foreign word. "Where is— what is that?"

"Lord Vader's estate on Naboo, in the lake country," Piett answered, awkwardly. "I...believe it belonged to your mother's family."

"Varykino. _Varykino_ ," Luke repeated, savoring the word, reverent. "Leia—"

But when he turned to her she was dazed, staring into the middle distance, having neither heard the conversation nor noticed that Vader had left them. "Leia...?"

She was twenty-three years away from the present, Vader's words echoing in her mind— _He was with her. He was with_ her. _He was—_

"Did you hear him?"

 _With her._

Her father had been with Padmé Amidala when she died.

 _("Never mention her on Coruscant, Leia—don't ask any questions. It would be better...some things are better unspoken.")_

She had died right after Luke was born. He'd told her as much—that he'd always known his mother died giving birth to him, though he'd never really been known for certain.

 _("The imperial court is full of secrets, intrigues—the grave of the Republic is fresh. Attempts to... unearth recent history draw attention.")_

It was just what he assumed from the little he'd been told.

 _("Bury your curiosity.")  
_

 _As you have buried your secrets, father?_

" _ **Leia**_!"

Leia's eyelids fluttered, she shook her head and saw Luke again, looking worried—but not about their desperate situation, the fact that they were in Imperial custody, about to be whisked who- knew-where in the Naboo Lake Country, in the hands of the Admiral of the Navy and Darth Vader—his _father._

He was worried about _her_.

She was quiet for the journey. Wordlessly, she accepted the rough hewn cloak of a refugee, boarded the transport with Luke and the droids. She watched him doze, his hand curled on top of Artoo's dome. Tear tracks were still visible under his unruly fringe of blond hair.

She brushed it out of his eyes.

Sleep would not come to _her,_ not while Vader's words were stuck on endless loop in her head. If her father had been there when Luke was born, what else had he known?

It had never occurred to Leia that the secrets Bail feared her discovering the most had been his own.

But there were so many other things to think of now, the Alliance, the war, _Han..._ why did this nag at her so, seem to momentarily eclipse everything else?

" _There will be a time and a place for you to learn...everything. Bury your curiosity. It will keep."_

It had. Against her will it had.

When they escaped from Vader, she would bury it again.


End file.
